Road Trip
by maryalicesmith
Summary: I had planned a quick road trip but the characters, being out of work and growing rowdy, took over. They are, however, allowing me to act as scribe. One chapter weekly until July 13th.
1. Chapter 1

Road Trip

"Why can't we fly?" asked Neal petulantly, his passenger side car seat pushed back, his size 10 feet - bare in their soft brown leather loafers, crossed - propped up on the richly textured grey dashboard of the cobalt blue Taurus, the lime green light of his tracking anklet flashing…flashing…flashing.

"Neal, we're only going 30 miles," answered Peter, Caffrey's FBI handler, jailer and - incongruently - friend. Glancing quickly behind him at the toll booth they just passed through, the agent brought his eyes forward again to peer through the windshield. These new Fords practically drove themselves, yet even off duty he couldn't break his habit of keeping track of what was around him at all times. Probably a habit he would carry with him into the nursing home, thought Burke ruefully.

"Why am I here again?" groused Neal, breaking into Burke's morose thoughts. "It's my day off." His alarmingly blue eyes surveyed the landscape languidly. Boxey city blocks were turning into velvety green hills pushing out of dark purple valleys as they sped out of New York City. The fingers on his left hand drummed an erratic beat on the armrest between them.

"Elizabeth is working today," Peter repeated for the third time that morning. "As for days off – you don't get them. Besides, I like tormenting you."

"Obviously. Where are we going again?"

Burke sighed. Not for the first time Peter wondered if Neal was going through a delayed adolescence. Or was he himself becoming irritable in his middle age?

"We're going to visit my brother, today is his 45th birthday," Peter repeated yet again, wondering how often he would have to say it before they arrived at their destination in a half hour.

"Right!" exclaimed Neal, which was exactly what he said the first time Peter had repeated it to him barely an hour ago. Turning his head to survey the backseat, he announced, "I am hungry. Where are the snacks?"

Burke was beginning to wonder who was tormenting whom on this trip. "Neal, I took you out to breakfast before we left. You can't be hungry already."

"Yet, oddly I am," answered Neal with a grin. "Haven't you ever gone on a road trip? You're supposed to stock up on snacks, drinks, magazines, music, and…"

"It's not a road trip, Neal. I told you that before."

"We're on a road. It's a trip. Road trip!" insisted the younger man, grinning. "Will we be there soon?"

"Why?"

"I need to go the bathroom."

Burke glanced over at his CI in amazement. "You're kidding me!"

"No, I need to go."

"We've barely been on the road 15 minutes, Neal."

"I had three cups of coffee back at the restaurant. You didn't tell me we would be leaving civilization. Please, Peter. I NEED to go."

"Fine! Fine!" Burke snapped, beginning to think that he and Elizabeth had indeed made a good decision to not have children.

Peter pulled the Taurus over to the side of the road where it kicked up chalky dust and pebbles before rolling to a stop next to a clump of dying trees and assorted weeds.

"Why are we stopping?" asked Neal, turning to Peter in surprise.

"You said you had to go…," Peter gestured impatiently toward the trees.

"Here?" protested Neal, disbelief playing across his fine features. He looked over in distaste at the small clump of pseudo-greenery, traffic whizzing by a few feet away.

"Where did you think we were stopping?"

"At a gas station, a restaurant, a place that has…facilities."

"Neal, this is all the 'facilities' you're getting. Go here – don't go – whatever. Just make up your mind so we can get back on the road. I want to be there by visi….er, I want to be there by ten-thirty."

"Visi….visiting hours?" Neal looked at Peter suspiciously. "Where are we going where there are 'visiting hours'"?

"Are you getting out or not?" demanded Peter, ignoring Neal's question while reaching to turn on the car again.

"Alright!" snapped Neal. "Just wait." He jumped out of the car and ran into the clump of trees. Peter pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, hoping to see a text message from Elizabeth. There was nothing.

The car door slammed shut as Neal leapt back in a few minutes later. "I think I saw a rattlesnake back there," the young man reported accusingly, his blue eyes wide with indignation. He looked back through the window apprehensively.

"You do know we're in New York, right?" laughed Peter.

"There are rattlesnakes in New York," countered Neal, defensively. "Where exactly does your brother live, again?" asked Neal wishing he had bothered listening to Peter earlier. He still had too much of the con artist in him not to pay attention to the vague uneasy feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach.

"You'll see," Burke answered mysteriously.

Fifteen minutes later, Neal read aloud a road sign passing that said, "Village of Ossining - 5 miles".

"Your brother lives in Ossining?" asked Neal with growing anxiety.

"More or less," answered the FBI agent evasively.

"Do you actually have a brother?" Neal suddenly demanded, suspiciously. "You've never talked about a brother."

"I haven't?" replied Peter innocently.

"In fact, I've never seen a picture of a brother in your house," remembered Neal outloud.

"That's true," admitted Burke, nodding his head. There were no pictures of a brother in his home.

"If there's no brother, then what's going on?" asked Neal, his face blanching to an alarming shade of concrete gray when they rounded a turn in the road. The famed prison of Sing Sing suddenly came into view with its turrets and watch towers, it's castle-like concrete walls and miles of razor wire. Neal's fingers impulsively went to the passenger door and he grabbed the handle as an overpowering desire to GET OUT OF THE CAR THIS VERY SECOND engulfed him. But the passenger side door with it's child-proof lock would not budge and Neal felt a rising sense of panic which made his skin crawl and sweat break out in the palm of his hands.

Peter was too busy navigating the tricky exit from the expressway to answer his paroled con artist and when he finally glanced at his friend, he gasped with alarm, "Neal! What's wrong with you?" and then barked, "Open the window - NOT in the car!"

"Listen, Peter!" begged Neal, his damp hands clenching the armrests. "I know the last case didn't go all that well. But I told you I'm not into the whole Hell's Angels thing, I didn't know anything about them. I'll do better next time…"

"Neal, stop blabbering. Breathe. Breathe." Peter had expected to have some fun at Neal's expense today but he hadn't planned on throwing him into cardiac arrest. "I am not leaving you here, Caffrey."

The younger man, hand on his heaving chest, eyes focused on the dreaded prison ahead, looming bigger by the moment, managed to pant out between gasps, "Then what…?"

"It's my brother's 45th birthday today, remember?"

"Your brother works for Corrections?" asked Neal, color slowly returning to his face, beads of moisture on his forehead glistening in the sun shining through the car window.

"You could say that," replied Peter with a wry smile but if Neal had looked over he would have seen Burke's brown eyes grow hard as he scrutinized the fabled prison and a tightness to his lips appeared that might have alarmed Caffrey even further. For a brief moment a bleak look of emptiness washed over Burke's face, an expression which Neal would never have seen before. But it was gone in a flash and by time Neal glanced over at his friend, the agent's familiar face was reflecting only slight bemusement.

An hour later, Neal realized that had he given it any prior thought, he would have taken for granted that an FBI agent at Peter's level would have some clout at a state prison and thus an easy time getting into it but such was apparently not the case. Both he and Peter were forced through the same slow agonizing process as the other visitors standing in line and by time it was over, Neal felt like he was in one of his own recurring prison nightmares. He had not been patted down so expertly in nearly a year and he discovered he was no longer accustomed to the intrusion of unfamiliar hands on his body without his permission. He had to empty his pockets and leave all his personal possessions behind, in a worn brown manila envelope, at the main station where the uniformed guards checked his ID, pushed him through a metal detector, and stamped the back of his left hand with indelible ink. Lord knew when it would come off, he thought worriedly, casting a dour look at the black mark. By time he stumbled out into the prison side of the walls, his legs were trembling so much he had to steady himself by reaching out to a hewed rock cemented in the wall nearby. Peter seemed to take it all in stride as though visiting Sing Sing was a daily occurrence. Finally they were through the gauntlet and pointed up a hill to a tall building surrounded by a wall on top of which were further layers of razor wire. Neal unconsciously stayed to the right of the yellow line going up the hill until he noticed Peter looking at him oddly and then tried to nonchalantly meander to the other side of the line but without success.

Reaching the top of the hill, Peter prodded him in through a doorway of the building into a large room filled with visiting families, inmates, and guards in their gray and blue uniforms. An overwhelming sick smell of too many men together in too small a space hit Neal in the face and he soon found himself breathing through his mouth and even then he tasted the odor. The clangy sounds of the ancient prison were all too familiar and Neal actually pinched his wrist just to make sure he was not dreaming. Peter, however, did not seem to be aware of anything unnerving. Children of every color and size ran around amongst the tables and chairs, playing and screaming, their sounds echoing off the eggshell white walls. Young mothers with too-old faces were holding crying babies as inmates dressed in jeans and black shirts looked anxiously at their loved ones and whispered in low voices, keeping a wary eye on the circle of grey and blue around the perimeter of the large bare room.

"What are we doing here?" asked Neal urgently, his blue eyes darting around the room quickly. Was Peter's brother the Superintendent? A guard? He searched Peter's face but his handler was scanning the crowded room, his eyes narrowed to slits. Just then Neal's line of vision wandered past Peter's ear to a man in regulation jeans and shirt who had just then entered the room from the other side. "Ohmygod," Neal murmured, grabbing Burke's arm in a death's grip. Peter turned to follow Neal's gaze, then threw up his other hand in greeting. The man took notice and began making his way through the crowded room toward them, a burly black guard, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses, following close at his heels.

Neal found himself actually rubbing his eyes, wondering what sort of weird nightmare this was turning out to be. He'd had strange dreams before but this one was way beyond the pale. The inmate in prison garb resembled Peter so much it was like looking at his twin.

"Since you're identical twins, I have to stay right here for the entire visit," the CO following the man stated sternly, relaxing his massive body into a comfortable stance as Peter and his brother shook hands warmly, ignoring the correctional officer.

Peter turned to Neal with a grin, "This is my brother, Philip."

"I…I…I…" stuttered Neal, his face flushed in shock as he stared open-mouthed at the prisoner, who was now lowering himself by his tattooed arms into one of the white metal chairs at the round aluminum table, its surface covered by chipped red paint.

"Is he always so articulate?" asked Philip with Peter's favorite grin.

"Usually he's chattering his head off," Peter remarked with a dismissive wave of his hand. Sitting down quickly in another metal chair at the table, he continued, while studying his brother's tired face, "I am sorry El couldn't make it, she's catering a wedding today in the Hamptons."

"The economy hasn't hurt her business, then?"

"You know, it's up and down. She…" Neal's head felt like it was going to explode. His initial panic was subsiding to be replaced by a million questions. Peter had a twin brother. Who was in Sing Sing. Neal tried to digest it all without success. On one hand he felt strangely honored that Peter wanted to share this with him. But why?

"Caffrey? Caffrey!" Neal heard his name and tried to focus. The brothers were sitting side by side staring at him, both laughing that same sardonic Peter laugh.

"What's wrong with you?" Peter hissed impatiently, leaning over to give him a sharp poke in his shoulder.

"Nothing! I am fine!" Neal forced his mouth into a smile while rubbing his now throbbing shoulder. There was no problem. Just sitting here in Sing Sing with his FBI handler's convict brother. No problem at all.

"Pete's told me a lot about you," Philip remarked to Neal, his voice not identical to Peter's, more hoarse, probably a smoker, guessed the con man. But his mannerisms were so familiar, Neal felt a major bout of déjà vu coming on.

"All good, I hope," laughed Neal awkwardly, trying to regain at least a portion of his wits. The brothers snickered as twins often do when sharing a private joke at the expense of others.

"Oh yeah, ALL good," verified Philip with that Peter grin again. "So you've been out – what a year, now?"

"Just about," agreed Neal, with a lopsided smile. He was beginning to fear he had had a stroke. His facial features did not seem to work properly at all.

"Pete – why didn't we think of this?" asked Philip, suddenly turning to his brother. "You could get me out, I could be your CI, help you with all your cases."

"What a great idea!" exclaimed Peter, snapping his fingers. "It would be perfect. Then I wouldn't need Neal here. He could go back…"

"I am sitting right here, guys!" protested Neal with a forced laugh. They were teasing him – right?

"Don't worry, kid," said Philip with a regretful sigh, glancing down to the worn table. "You're safe. I'm in here for life."

"Indeed?" replied Neal politely. He had been eager to find out what Philip was in for but well knew it was very bad manners to ask.

"First degree murder," added Philip bluntly, giving Neal an appraising look.

"Oh?" Neal replied with a tight smile. Murder? Murder! How had he missed this when he had investigated Peter when he himself was in prison? He knew where Peter went to kindergarten but never a mention of a twin brother. This was very strange indeed. Yet there was no doubting the evidence of his eyes. Peter squared.

"Philip never did anything by halves," remarked Peter, the jovial mood fading fast. "Tell Neal what your life is like in here, Phil."

"He knows what my life is like," answered the other twin defensively, pushing himself away from the table and leaning back in his metal chair, he folded his painted arms over his chest.

"I am not so sure Neal does," said Peter seriously. "He's willing to risk coming back in here, all because of so-called love."

"Pete couldn't save me," whispered Philip, leaning over to Neal, "So he's trying to save you." Philip glanced over his shoulder at his twin with the exact same disapproving expression Peter so often used when looking at Neal.

"I am not trying to _save_ anyone," protested Peter, the color rising quickly in his face, his brown eyes darkening.

"You're _always_ trying to save someone," contradicted Philip, with rather too much emotion. Neal noticed the guard had straightened up, moving his hand closer to the baton at his belt. "That's why you became an FBI agent. It's who you are, Pete. A savior."

Oops, thought Neal to himself. Probably not a good thing to say. Peter jumped up from his chair in sync with the guard leaning over. "Is everything okay here?" asked the guard sternly. His eyes were unseeable behind the dark glasses but there was no mistaking the threat in his deep voice.

"Fine. Fine. Everything's fine," insisted Peter, falling into the metal chair again, the legs of the chair making a high-pitched squeak as it skidded across the linoleum floor a few inches.

"It was the same thing with Dad, Pete. You tried to save him and couldn't."

"He was NOT our father!" protested Peter angrily, his fist was headed toward the table when he suddenly pulled it back, thinking better of the outburst with the muscular prison guard standing over them.

"I nearly ruined your career. Elizabeth begged you to stop. Is she begging you now, Pete?"

"This is ridiculous," insisted Peter, turning his head to stare off into the crowded room, his eyes glistened too bright under the harsh light. He folded his arms across his chest tightly, his chin stuck out stubbornly. The two brothers reminded Neal of angry bookends.

"You wouldn't believe what my brother did for me," Philip whispered to Neal who by this time was feeling acutely embarrassed to witness this painful family moment. "I almost got away with murder. But at the last moment, Elizabeth got through to him – I guess. But it was this close." Philip held up his right hand with thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart.

"You were always quite the storyteller, Philip," Peter growled from behind clenched teeth, his head turned away.

"Pete," Philip stated to his brother's back. "He doesn't want what you're offering. Open your eyes."

Hey, guys. I am still here! shouted Neal silently but he didn't open his mouth. He was oddly embarrassed for Peter and he didn't quite know what to make of Philip. On the surface they looked near identical but it was already obvious they were quite different men. It was only when Peter and Neal were back in the car on the way home that Neal found the courage to ask the question that had been bugging him all afternoon.

"I don't understand it. I thought I knew everything about you. How did I miss a twin brother?"

Peter kept his eyes on the road, his hands strangling the steering wheel to the point his knuckles were white. "Our parents divorced soon after we were born, my brother late one night and me the next morning. My mom took me and my brother was raised by our…father. We don't share the same last name. The medical records were lost in a fire the following year. There's no way you would have known."

Just as Neal opened his mouth to respond, Peter's cell phone rang and the FBI agent pull his Blackberry out of the holster on his belt. "Hi, hon…we're on our way home. I'll be there soon."

"Who did your brother…er… kill?" asked Neal gently, trying to phrase his question politely.

"I don't feel like talking about it, Neal," Peter answered tersely, keeping his eyes glued to the road ahead. "Just Google it, you're going to anyway."

Neal didn't tell Peter he had already googled his brother's name on his iPhone but in the darkness of the car, the small screen was impossible to read. He turned the phone off. Neal stared at the black mark on his hand and started scratched at it, trying to remove it. But it stayed as resistant as a tattoo and Neal gave up as skin accumulated under his fingernails. Great, he thought, depressed. Marked for life. As if the tracking anklet wasn't enough of a reminder that he wasn't free, now he had this black gash from Sing Sing branded on his body.

It had started out a fun day - breakfast with Peter, a ride to the country, his first trip outside New York since going to prison half a decade ago. Now Neal felt sad and awkward. He was not accustomed to examining his emotions and this day had been too bizarre for him to process. No one needed to tell him that if it were not for Peter, he would still be marking off the days on his cell wall, trying to keep one step ahead of the other inmates, his youth fading away behind razor wire and iron bars. They rode silently for a long while, Neal trying to find something to say but it was Peter who spoke first as June's house came into view.

"It's been a long day and I want to get home. If you see June, tell her I said 'Hi'".

The younger man opened the door and stepped out of the car. He had barely turned to close the car door when Peter reached over, grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. With a slight wave of his hand, he put the Taurus into drive and pulled out into traffic. Neal stood there on the sidewalk looking after the car as it merged into the line of other cars waiting at the signal down the street.

Entering his apartment a few moments later, Neal was briefly startled to see Mozzie stretched out on his sofa in the darkened room.

"Where have you been?" asked Mozzie, sitting up while rubbing his eyes. He peered in Neal's direction but only saw a blurry but still familiar figure.

"Sing Sing," answered Neal, concisely, flicking the light on. He briefly wondered if Mozzie had moved in with him and forgotten to mention it.

Mozzie whistled softly. "An object lesson?" he asked, searching the sofa for his glasses, hands outstretched.

"Kind of - I guess," replied Neal, tossing his hat on the rack by the door. He had done it so often his pitch was perfect and the hat landed square on the peg, next to Mozzie's jacket.

"He never gives up, does he?" Mozzie observed, putting his feet, in their black stockings, on the floor.

"What do you expect? He's a FBI agent."

"True," agreed Mozzie. He had never gotten this close to a FBI agent and was finding the study of Peter Burke fascinating. He liked the man more than he would have admitted, although he didn't trust him but then he didn't trust anyone. Mozzie liked Neal too but he was well aware of the young man's priorities and that he himself was not as high on that list as he himself would like. Neal had abandoned him before and would do so again should Kate return. Mozzie was not sure why he kept coming back every time Neal called. But this last encounter was proving to be the most interesting for him. Although Mozzie was alert for opportunities that would work to his advantage, it was inevitably hard to con a con and harder yet to con Neal.

"Don't you have a home?" asked Neal, more impatiently than he intended. He felt angry but was puzzled as to why. Mozzie was always a good target for these rare bouts of temper that came upon him. Neal instantly regretted his words and quickly put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I am sorry, Moz," he said. "It was just a hard day."

"I can see that," replied Mozzie, peering at Neal through his glasses. He had wiped the lens on his shirt and the result had not been successful. Shuffling over to the sink, he turned the cold water on and ran it over his glasses then reached up for a paper towel. Paper towels were not great at cleaning glasses either but they would do in a pinch.

"Any progress in getting this anklet off me?" asked Neal curtly, opening the refrigerator to peer inside.

"Not yet," replied Mozzie, tossing the paper towel in the trash and putting his glasses on. Better.

"Keep working on it, Mozzie," Neal ordered abruptly. "I've got to find Kate. I've got to get out of here. Please, keep trying."

Mozzie nodded and grabbed his jacket off the rack beside Neal's hat before opening the door to leave. It was reassuring for him to realize that as long as Kate was alive, nothing would change.

Across town, FBI agent Peter Burke was lying in bed with his wife Elizabeth, holding her close to him, feeling her familiar warmth.

"Do you think it made an impression on him?" Elizabeth asked her husband, running her right fore finger along the black mark on the back of her husband's left hand."

"Oh, I am sure of it, El," Peter said with conviction, pulling her closer. "Maybe not Philip, he was as irritating as ever. But just being in Sing Sing - you should have seen Neal's face. I thought the kid was going to pass out. I am sure he's re-evaluating his whole life at this very moment. Believe me, El, this trip today is going to be the turning point in Neal Caffrey's life."

An hour later Caffrey put down the book he had been reading and checked his watch. The young man slowly rose from the lotus position he had assumed on the floor to lock his apartment door very quietly so June wouldn't hear the 'click' of the bolt. Even though he was on the third floor and knew no one could see him, he also closed the shutters on the window side of his studio. Thanks to Mozzie, he felt comfortable that he wasn't under surveillance but he still lowered the lights. Sitting down on the sofa Mozzie had vacated earlier that evening, Neal pulled off his loafers and then extended his left foot up toward his leg until his toes touched his lower calf and then he began gently pushing the tracking anklet around his heel, past his arch, and over his toes where it fell silently on the rug. Strange, he ruminated, not for the first time, that the FBI did not test for double-jointedness.

The young con artist padded in bare feet over to an impressionist painting hanging on the wall and reached up, taking it down carefully. Turning it over, he removed a cellphone from the back and propped the painting next to the wall. Checking his watch again, he flipped opened the small black phone and quickly hit a series of numbers from memory. He put the phone to his ear, the light from the keys casting a blue shadow over his handsome features.

"Colin!" he whispered into the phone, absently rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn't realized how much he ached to see his brother again until he heard his voice. "I know what he wants…"

Across the street an early morning newspaper delivery truck had stalled and was parked by the curb.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"I am sorry, Peter," Hughes said but if he was sorry the contrition was not evident on his gaunt pallid face. The old man, seated behind his heavy oak desk, continued to peer up at his senior agent uneasily, his blue eyes wary but hard as stone.

"We're not sending Neal back to prison!" Burke was repeating emphatically. He had risen from his chair a few minutes ago and was now pacing around the small office in very tight circles, his arms flailing around in frustration. "He's done everything we asked of him, he's helped us with every case. I promised him." the agent sputtered to a stop.

"Peter, he's been playing you," Hughes stated emphatically. "He's played all of us. This was his goal all along - to infiltrate the FBI. Now he's done it; we can't let him complete his mission."

"Mission?" repeated Burke, "what 'mission' are you talking about?"

"His brother…", started Hughes

"His brother has nothing to do with him."

"His brother has everything to do with him." stated the Hughes emphatically.

"They haven't seen each other since god knows when," Burke stated. "Your own intelligence says it's been at least 10 years."

"They've talked on the phone…"

"If Neal was up to anything, he knows darn well not to talk about it on the phone - any phone," stated Burke emphatically. "He would not be that stupid."

"Listen Burke," said Hughes sharply. Before he could continue his thought his office phone buzzed. He glared at the phone for a second, irritated by the interruption, checked the phone number on the small screen, then sighing, picked up the receiver. Hughes listened for a moment then said, "Fine. Thank you." and placed the handset back on its cradle.

"Who was that?" demanded Burke suspiciously, the hair on his neck standing up as it always did when something bad was about to happen.

"It's done," stated Hughes quietly. "Caffrey is in custody. The Superintendent has been notified - No FBI agent is to visit him or communicate in any way - including myself. You have cases - get back to them." The agent's voice was harsh and clipped, betraying no emotion other than his usual irritation. When Burke did not move, Hughes rose to his feet, pushed back his comfortable office chair, and glared at Burke from a safe distance.

"So this is why you kept me in the office all day?" asked Burke incredulously, brown eyes blazing, his voice rising louder with every word. "You call me in and keep me busy while Neal is arrested and taken away to lord-knows-where? Where did they take him?"

"You're in too deep, Peter," advised Hughes, shaking his head sadly. "When you came to me with this last year, I warned you. Keep your distance. Be professional. But no, now you're Caffrey's buddy and he's playing you. It's…Philip all over again. But this time you're endangering our country as well. I won't have it."

"Our country?" repeated Peter, as though doubting his hearing. "Our country? What the hell are you talking about? Caffrey is a white collar criminal. He's never done a violent act in his life."

"If you won't go back to work, Burke, then go home," ordered Hughes harshly. "Get some rest. Get some perspective! Whose side are you on, anyway?" and with that the old man side-stepped Burke and strode out of his office, being careful to keep some distance between him and his agent. Peter Burke stared after his supervisor, his mouth open in utter astonishment.

"What happened?" asked Jones, hurrying up the stairs two at a time after he made sure Hughes had stepped into the elevator. He eyed his section lead with alarm as Burke fell back into one of Hughes' plush office chairs.

"Neal's back in prison," stated Burke, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're kidding!" exclaimed Jones, shocked. "What did he do?"

"I have no idea," answered Burke. "Something to do with his brother.

"Neal has a brother?" asked Jones? Odd, he had never imagined Neal having siblings. "Where did they take him?"

"God knows," replied Burke. "Hughes won't tell me."

"I am sorry," Jones said, patting Burke's shoulder. "What are we going to do?"

"I have no idea," said Burke, his shoulders slumping. He felt many years older than he had that morning.

Half an hour later, Burke shuffled up the few stairs to his small house and pushed through the door, hardly taking notice of the fresh sunflower wreath Elizabeth had hung on the vestibule door.

As soon as she saw her husband Elizabeth knew something was very, very wrong.

"Ohmygod, are you OK?" Elizabeth asked, rushing over to embrace him before he could remove his coat. "What happened? Are you hurt? You are OK, right? Tell me you're alright!" she begged, her voice rising.

Peter kissed his wife slowly, smelling the sweet scent of her hair, trying to slow his racing heart. "Neal's been arrested," the agent told his wife, shaking his head in a disbelief which would not go away.

"What!" Elizabeth exclaimed. "What happened? What did he do?" She gently helped Peter off with his coat, then turned to hang it in the closet by the door. She liked Neal but was more concerned for Peter who she knew would take it hard. Neal had become the little brother Peter never had and in many ways made up for the older brother Peter did have. And now this.

"I don't know, El. They arrested him while I was at work, Hughes kept me busy all day so I couldn't interfere."

"What must Neal be thinking now?" asked Elizabeth, worriedly. "Where did they take him?"

"I don't know," said Peter. "I am not allowed to visit him, anyway. No one from the FBI can see him." He crumpled to the sofa and his head fell into his hands. "If I could just talk to him for 5 minutes and try to find out what happened. Maybe Neal did something, said something. It's connected to his brother someway."

"He has a brother?" exclaimed Elizabeth.

"Why does everyone think that's so odd?," questioned Peter, raising his head. "A lot of people have brothers."

"I know, honey" Elizabeth replied, holding on to him tightly. Having been raised with five sisters, she could hardly imagine having a brother.

"I wonder if I could visit him," speculated Elizabeth thoughtfully.

"You?" Peter raised his head, his brow wrinkled in surprise.

"I probably know the Warden's wife - wherever he is," Elizabeth replied, reaching for her phone. "Remember I catered that banquet for the Superintendents' Wives last year? A 'thank you' from the federal and state governments for all they put up with to support their husbands? It was a huge event. I met all of them. In fact, I still keep in contact with a few. If he's in Attica…"

"He wouldn't be in Attica," answered Peter. "They would have sent him to a federal prison if he is still in the U.S. If not, then he could be absolutely anywhere in the world. I am never going to find him," Peter groaned.

"Still," reflected Elizabeth. "The wives have quite a network of their own. Let me try." insisted Elizabeth. "I'll start with Susan Brown, she got me that great catering job at the Correctional Officer's Ball at Christmas" she smiled slightly at the memory. It had been one of her more memorable events. She and Susan had clicked too and had often talked on the phone since the banquet.

"I don't know…" said Peter. Hughes would not like Elizabeth getting involved. But she was a private citizen. Sort of. And a business woman in her own right. She could do what she liked - right?

"Let me call Susan and…"

"Don't tell me!" begged Peter, putting his hands over his ears. The less he knew the better. This was not the time to get a suspension - not if he was to help Neal.

Two weeks and three days later Peter paced the room of the Holiday Inn Express Hotel in Lompoc. The sun was streaming through the half-blinded windows but he was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of a California summer. Less than five miles away Elizabeth was approaching the Lompoc Federal Penitentiary in her rented hybrid, a blue Prius complete with sunroof. The prison was a huge imposing structure isolated by itself amongst flower fields of marigolds. How odd she thought that such a dark place should be surrounded by such beauty. She passed trusted prisoners on the shoulder of the four lane road installing some sort of irrigation system, their blue denim shirts already damp with sweat in the hot sun breaking through the morning fog. She did not see a guard in sight. Strange, she wondered. As Elizabeth drove by the men she quickly scanned each of their faces but realized it would be too lucky to see Neal amongst them.

An hour later, Elizabeth was alone inside a small visitor's room in the penitentiary. From far away she could hear bells ringing as though from a church. The Angelus? Was it noon already? During the long drive from the Santa Barbara Airport to Lompoc they had passed La Purisma Mission and she wondered if she was hearing the bells from such a long distance away. Or was it even still a church? She should have paid more attention, she chided herself. Bells…bells…why would there be bells in a prison? Why was she obsessing about bells? Perhaps because she didn't want to think about how much Peter was depending on her and how much Neal was depending on her, although he didn't know it yet. She wouldn't have much time with Neal, she had to stay calm, she told herself. Trying to distract her mind she forced her eyes around the small room, taking in the color of the cement block walls, the dingy smell of the air, even the spider web in the corner of the blocked window. The metal door. She wanted to remember it all so she could describe to Peter every detail of her visit. The metal door was quite imposing with its locks and security camera installed on top. Yet for all the chilling atmosphere, a sliver of sun managed to squeeze through the blacked-out window casting a long pencil line of light horizontally across the floor. Hope. It was a good omen in this despairing place.

Sudden rattling and scuffing sounds at the door caused Elizabeth to leap to her feet as the heavy iron door was pushed open and Neal staggered through or perhaps was pushed by the guard following him, Elizabeth couldn't tell. Her mouth dropped open in horror at his appearance, she barely recognized him. The young man's skin was so pale as to be almost transparent, his curly brown hair was in greasy disarray, he had the beginnings of a beard. Neal's body was thinner than she remembered; the orange jumpsuit hung on his bony frame. His ankles were shackled and his handcuffs attached to a chain around his waist. Neal's head was down, he tried to keep his eyes on the floor but she saw him glance up quickly at her in astonished disbelief. Neal didn't say anything as the guard pushed him unceremoniously into one of the metal chairs at the table. The correctional officer then moved back a step to take his place at the wall behind Neal's chair.

"I was told I could visit with Mr. Caffrey alone," Elizabeth addressed the guard sternly, continuing to stand.

"No one visits with prisoners alone except their attorneys," replied the guard gruffly, eyeing her with distain behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

"Mrs. Jimenez told me I could visit with Mr. Caffrey alone," insisted Elizabeth, her voice rising. She glared at the guard who glared back and they eyed one another for a moment until the guard broke the stare. It was evident he didn't want any trouble with Mrs. Jimenez, the warden's wife. Which did not surprise Elizabeth as Mrs. Jimenez was one of the more formidable warden wives that she had met.

"Five minutes, that's all," the correctional officer growled hoarsely and then backed out the door, slamming it shut behind him and bolting it with a crash of sound.

Elizabeth moved quickly around the table and embraced Neal, hugging him close to her as he leaned into her body, his head on her shoulder, his eyes closed tightly. His sobs shook her body, his tears soaked through her thin white silk blouse and she could feel their warmth on her skin. "It's going to be okay, Neal" she whispered again and again, patting his thin shoulder softly. After a few moments, she gently pulled away and wiped the tears off his check with her fingers. Kissing him lightly on top of his head, she gave him a last affectionate squeeze and moved back to the other side of the table to face him.

"Are you okay, Neal?" asked Elizabeth softly, reaching over the short space to touch his grimy cheek gently with her outstretched fingers which were shaking uncontrollably with her emotions. She had never seen any one so scared, much less someone she was truly fond of and it hurt her deeply. She was glad Peter was not here to see Neal like this, her husband would have been pulling his chains off with his bare hands.

"What am I doing here?" whispered Neal, his thin face pinched with fear and bewilderment, his blue eyes black. "What did I do? I've been in solitary since I was arrested. Where is Peter?" His heavy chains rattled as he tried unsuccessfully to reach out to her.

Elizabeth took a deep breath. She and Peter had rehearsed what she would say because they knew she would not have long with Neal and she had to make the most of her time. "No FBI agent is allowed to visit you, Neal. The Warden's wife is a personal friend of mine so she talked her husband into letting me see you. Peter is going crazy, believe me. Mozzie, June, too. Everyone is worried sick about you. We think you're here because of something to do with your brother. Do you know what that could be?"

"My brother?" repeated Neal, puzzled.

"Yes, you made a call to him the night Peter brought you back from Sing Sing. Do you remember?"

"A call…how…my phone was bugged…?

"No, the CIA overheard the call with their equipment. They think you're in cahoots with him, infiltrating the FBI for some nefarious reason."

Neal looked totally bewildered. "I haven't seen my brother in…over twenty years; I wouldn't even recognize him," said Neal, whispering. Elizabeth had to lean over the table to hear him, his voice was so low.

"Have you seen an attorney, Neal? Has anyone interrogated you?" asked Elizabeth.

Neal shook his head. "I haven't seen anyone. I thought you all had forgotten about me." Elizabeth's heart broke at his words. If only she had time to reassure him that he had been in their thoughts every waking moment and in many of their dreams as well. But it was more important to spend each precious second finding out as much as she could; they needed every scrap of information if they had any chance of success.

Neal, you have to tell me everything," Elizabeth urged. "Quickly. Peter can't get anything out of Hughes, none of his friends in the CIA will talk to him about you. He can't help you if he doesn't know what is going on. Who is your brother? Why did you call him?"

"I called him because I…missed him. I saw Peter with Philip, it reminded me of…Colin. I just…wanted to hear his voice."

"Colin? What's his last name, Neal? Peter can't find a Colin Caffrey anywhere," interrogated Elizabeth.

"Colin O'Mara," Neal whispered faintly. The name sounded vaguely familiar to Elizabeth but she couldn't place where she had heard it. Peter would know. She mentally said it several times over in her mind to remember it as the guards took everything away from her before she entered the visitor's cell.

"Are you involved in anything with your brother, Neal?" asked Elizabeth. "Peter can help you, Neal. Whatever it is, Peter can help. But he has to know what he's up against."

Just as Neal opened his mouth to answer her, the barred door shot open and a couple of uniformed guards strode into the small room and grabbed Neal by his shoulders, yanking him off the metal chair roughly. Terror shot across Neal's face and he screamed to Elizabeth, "Tell Peter…" before one of the correctional officers clamped his gloved hand over Neal's open mouth and dragged him out of the room, his shackled feet stumbling to keep up.

"How dare you treat him that way!" yelled Elizabeth after them, incensed, furious beyond words. Another guard appeared at the door and reached for her arm but she pulled away. "Don't touch me!" she warned, glaring at the young man. He wisely took a step back and then motioned her out the door with a wave of his hand, his helmeted head slightly bowed as she passed him.

Fifteen minutes later Elizabeth was on her way back into Lompoc in the rented blue Prius, traveling east on Central Avenue, long golden stripes of marigold rows flashing past her as the car sped along faster than the speed limit allowed. She tried not to think of the last moment she saw Neal, the look of absolute horror on his face, the way he reached out hopelessly to her with his chained hands. She would not tell Peter about that. Unfortunately they would have to return to New York without Neal, it was going to kill Peter to leave him behind. Waiting for the signal on H Street, Elizabeth looked around her at the strange little town she knew she would see again soon.

If Peter had been with her, he might have noticed the car following a block behind.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The blackness was just as black, the silence just as silent, the food - well, what could one say about a slice of processed American cheese between two pieces of white bread? At least that's what Neal Caffrey hoped it was as he took a bite of his sandwich in the tar black of his solitary cell deep within the basement of Lompoc Federal Penitentiary. He might as well not have had eyes for the good they did him from 10:00 p.m. until 6:00 a.m. when the electric light went out in his tiny concrete bunker. He would never have imagined darkness could be so - dark. He had felt his way back to his metal cot after picking up his dinner tray from the hatch in the door and sat down on the thin mattress with its' one scratchy gray army blanket folded on top. With his fingers he examined each item on the tray although, by now, he knew exactly what his dinner would consist of. One cheese sandwich - check. One carton of non-fat milk - check. One apple - check. No silverware - check. No surprises - check.

But that was only in his physical world and at the moment his physical world mattered much less to him than what was in his heart which was so filled with relief that he would have danced around his cell had he not been afraid of crashing into its' hard unforgiving walls in the darkness. Peter, Elizabeth, Jones, Mozzie, June, …they had not forgotten him, he was not abandoned. This craziness was indeed - crazy. Something had gone terribly wrong. Something involving his brother? As he chewed on the dry cheese sandwich his mind pondered the amazing events of the day and he dissected each moment slowly, the warm memories fending off the cold of the deep basement cell.

The day had started out exactly as the previous 15 days had begun. Shivering on his hard cot under his one wool blanket waiting endlessly for the light to come on at 6:00 a.m. Then when the light finally flickered on, wondering why he had bothered to cared. There was something to be said for darkness. He couldn't see how claustrophobic the small cell was, he had counted it as eight feet square. Nor could he see the shining stainless steel toilet, the small round porcelain sink with faucet, the one curly light bulb overhead, nor the heavy steel door with its' narrow hatch through which a food tray was pushed three times a day. But once the light was on there was no denying that what he had desperately hoped during the previous 8 hours was a horrible, horrible nightmare, was in fact reality, his new reality.

Yet reality had become more arbitrary by the day. Left totally alone for over two weeks, no one to talk to, no one to ask questions of and certainly no one to answer any questions, Neal was beginning to wonder just what reality consisted of and to where his life had vanished. Or if indeed he had ever had a life. He had memories of a life. But as the days wore on he had begun to doubt those memories. Perhaps this was his life and the memories were just - an illusion?

The young con artist, newly reformed, had spent much of his imprisonment dissecting each of his heists as far back as the first one, nearly 20 years ago. Which one had led to this sudden imprisonment so cut off from everyone he loved - and who he thought loved him? What powerful person was now wrecking their revenge on him - for missing artwork, forged bonds, a broken vase? Yeah, he did regret knocking over that Ming dynasty vase, but could it have led to this? Who was so high in the government, who had such influence, who, who, who? And where was Peter? Neal wondered about Peter most of all. Early on he had expected swift release once Peter Burke got wind of his arrest. In fact, even the moment he had been grabbed in his apartment by a force which resembled nothing so much as a SWAT team, he had fully expected Peter to the rescue, Peter to burst through the door to make everything right, Peter to suddenly appear in front of the convoy on the way to the airport, Peter to stop the private jet from taking off, Peter…Peter…Peter. Yet, none of that had happened. There was no Peter.

Now, after more than two weeks, Neal was beginning to give up hope that Peter would appear. It was seeming less and less likely as the days dragged on. Since Peter could always find him, Neal was gradually coming to the realization that it wasn't that Peter didn't know where he was - but that Peter did not care. At that he would recycle his thoughts again back to the beginning. What had he done that was so horrendous that Peter abandoned him?

This particular day, around noon, Neal had been sitting on his woolen blanket which he had folded into a mat of sorts and placed on the concrete floor on which to do his yoga poses. He had been trying to remember a difficult position that Kate had taught him years earlier, in reality or in his dreams - it made no difference to him at this point. He saw Kate so clearly in his mind's eye, the curve of her beautiful body in her black leotard, the way her long legs had stretched out, separated, her small feet flexed, her soft voice as she patiently instructed him…

"Caffrey, stand up!" a voice shouted through the hatch, shaking Neal out of his reverie so suddenly he jumped and hit his head on the wall he had been leaning against. "Put your wrists through here," the no-nonsense voice commanded. Neal swiftly rose to his feet and reached under the bed for the soft felt slippers he had been issued. Hurriedly he pulled them on his bare feet. "Now!" ordered the disembodied voice. Brown eyes appeared on the other side of the hatch as the guard peered through the small opening, trying to see if he was being obeyed. "Move it!"

Neal leaned over and looked apprehensively through the hatch into the irritated eyes of the unknown correctional officer. He had so longed for human contact these past two weeks but now that he was at last being addressed, he was rather wishing the guard would go away. Realizing that was highly unlikely, Neal reluctantly made his way over to the door and put his thin forearms into the small hatch. He shivered as his wrists were quickly cuffed. "Stand back!" the voice ordered roughly. Neal took a few steps back and as he did so the door flew open nearly missing his nose and half a dozen correctional officers flooded in, grabbed various parts of his body and pushed him face down to the cold floor.

"Why are you doing this?" Neal asked, turning his head to see better.

"Shut up!" someone ordered, giving him a painful kick in his ribs but causing no damage. "Don't talk!" With that, his elbows were grabbed by several hands and he was hoisted upright where another guard crouched at his feet and applied leg irons separated by only a few inches with heavy chain. Or at he least tried to. The pair they had brought with them were too large for Neal's ankles and a guard was dispatched for another pair amidst much cursing and complaining. A few moments later he returned with several pairs of leg irons rattling in his left hand and another pair was applied which would only fit over Neal's orange jumpsuit but were too loose if locked around Neal's ankles. Discussion ensued and it was soon evident to Neal that they knew of his hypermobility. Since only Kate, aside from his family, knew he was 'double-jointed', his mind reeled. Who could have told them? The guards continued to argue about the proper application of leg irons in such a case and what regulation was applicable. There was much argument over the dire consequences if Neal should somehow get free. After several more pairs were tried without success and after rubbing Neal's ankles raw, it was finally the consensus amongst the guards that regulations be damned - the chains were going to be locked over the jumpsuit which was fine with Neal as they were very cold indeed.

By this time his handcuffed wrists had been secured onto a chain around his waist. Finally, made nearly immobile inside a maximum security prison, Neal was finally deemed safe enough to move and the half dozen guards rushed him out of his cell and down the narrow green hallway to the elevator. With all six of the guards in the small elevator and Neal jammed in the middle, he desperately hoped they would quickly reach their destination before he suffocated. Fortunately the elevator swiftly carried them up to the first floor of the prison and Neal was half carried down several long well scrubbed hallways and long corridors. He blinked in the bright sunlight coming through the windows on the walls and tried to look around at his surroundings but as he raised his head a hand suddenly slapped him on his right ear and ordered "Keep your eyes down!".

The group might well have reached their destination sooner had not the correctional officers spied a well-dressed middle-aged Hispanic man talking to a correctional officer at the far end of one hallway they turned at. With sharp hisses of irritation and muttered curses, they quickly retraced their steps and took another, apparently longer, route. Finally, circling around, they arrived at a reinforced steel door marked "Visitors Only", one of the guards tugged it open with effort and the others gave Neal a sudden push and he went stumbling into the room, barely catching himself on the table before he fell.

Elizabeth! His jarred mind could not comprehend it for a moment. If Santa Claus himself had been standing in that visitor's room, Neal would not have been more startled. Only yesterday he had come to the conclusion, after much consideration, that whatever he had done to earn him a place in solitary confinement in a maximum security federal prison must have been so horrible that Peter had indeed written him off, that all his friends had likewise forsaken him. So they should. He felt no ill will toward them as he had total faith in their judgment. His own had always been poor. Yet - if only he knew what he had done. It was very perplexing as no one would tell him.

Another forceful shove pushed Neal into a metal chair by the table where he dared not lift his eyes. It was only when the guard reluctantly admitted defeat and left that he felt the warmth of Elizabeth's presence next to him that two weeks of pent-up emotion, fear, and now relief burst through and he found himself crying as he hadn't cried since he was a child. It wasn't all a dream, after all. He had a life, he had friends who cared about him.

After a few moments comforting him, Elizabeth moved away to the other side of the table. Peering over at her, Neal took in the soft beauty of her round face, her long brown silky hair, the deep concern in her compassionate eyes, her navy blue, well-fitted suit and thin white blouse, the necklace of antique ivory pop beads that Neal had given her for her birthday only a month ago. He wanted to savor this moment forever. But the next second he wondered - where was Peter?

"Are you okay, Neal? Elizabeth was asking him, softly cupping his face with her hand. Wondering momentarily if he was hallucinating, her touch confirmed that she was indeed real.

"What am I doing here?" whispered Neal hoarsely. He instinctively tried to reach out to her, just to feel the heat of another human being again, but his chains held him back. "What did I do? I've been in solitary since I was arrested. Where is Peter?"

It took a moment for Elizabeth to answer and in that moment her eyes held such concern and affection for him, he could literally feel his muscles relaxing. But he was very startled at what she said next. "No FBI agent is allowed to visit you, Neal. The Warden's wife is a personal friend of mine so she talked her husband into letting me see you. Peter is going crazy, believe me. Mozzie, June, too. Everyone is worried sick about you. We think you're here because of something to do with your brother. Do you know what that could be?"

"My brother?" repeated Neal, truly puzzled.

"Yes," Elizabeth reminded him, "you made a call to him the night Peter brought you back from Sing Sing. Do you remember?" she asked.

Neal thought back to that night almost a month ago now. His phone was bugged? But Mozzie checked everything, almost daily. How could that be?

"No, the CIA overheard the call with their equipment. They think you're in cahoots with him, infiltrating the FBI for some nefarious reason."

Infiltrating the FBI? A sense of unreality was beginning to hold him hostage again. "I haven't seen my brother in…over twenty years; I wouldn't even recognize him," Neal told her. It was the truth. Elizabeth leaned over to hear him, her hair falling by her cheeks, her two hands reaching out to him.

"Have you seen an attorney, Neal? Has anyone interrogated you?" Elizabeth pushed on. There was a strong sense of urgency in her voice and Neal tried to think fast.

"I haven't seen anyone, Elizabeth," Neal answered, shaking his head. That was an easy question. "I thought you all had forgotten about me." he continued, honestly. But he quickly regretted his words when he saw the deep expression of hurt cross Elizabeth's already concerned face. It was now so evident she cared about him that the fact that he had doubted his friends even for a moment seemed utterly ridiculous and a feeling of guilt overcame him. They had traveled nearly three thousand miles to find him all the while he was sitting in his cell immersed in self-pity?

"Neal, you have to tell me everything," Elizabeth had ordered him sternly. Neal knew that voice. When Peter heard that voice, he moved. Fast. As if reading his thoughts Elizabeth said, "Peter can't get anything out of Reece, none of his CIA friends will talk to him about you. He can't help you if he doesn't know what is going on. Who is your brother? Why did you call him?"

Neal answered simply, "I called him because I…missed him. I saw Peter with Philip, it reminded me of…Colin. I just…wanted to hear his voice." His thoughts went back to that day in Sing Sing. Given what had happened since to him, it seemed like a day in the park.

"Colin? What's his last name, Neal? Peter can't find any record of a Colin Caffrey who has any connection to you," Elizabeth told him. Of course, he wouldn't thought Neal to himself, remembering how little he had shared with Peter and Elizabeth about his family.

"Colin O'Mara," Neal told her, it had been a long time since he had said his brother's name outloud. But what good it would do them, he could not imagine.

"Are you and your brother involved in anything?" Elizabeth had asked, adding, "Peter can help you. Whatever it is, Peter can help."

As Neal was trying to think how to word his response, the heavy steel door of the visitor's room opened and he found himself being quickly lifted out of his chair by his shoulders and pulled from the table. Elizabeth leapt up from her chair as well and began screaming at the guards. Ohmygod, no! yelled Neal as well. He had to tell Elizabeth one last very important thing. "Tell Peter…" Neal called out, twisting in the grasp of the guards, but before he could get the words out a gloved hand was clamped over his mouth and he was dragged from the room, struggling. They hurried him down the hall, his feet barely touching the ground

A few minutes later Neal was unceremoniously flung back into his cell in the basement, his body sliding over the tile floor until he hit the wall with a thump. A couple of the helmeted guards followed him in and began removing his shackles. The younger of the two guards, a hefty black man, suggested to the other, "I can do this. You'd better go. There's trouble in Block 7." The other guard nodded, jumped up, and ran through the door, leaving Neal alone with the muscular correctional officer. As the guard worked unlocking the restraints there was no sound in the small cell except the rattling of steel on steel and the fast breathing of the guard. Neal's eyes went to the badge on the correctional officer's uniform. "Lester Jones" it read and Neal noted he had received his 10 year pin from CCPOA. Just before the last restraint was pulled off Neal, the guard leaned over him, seemingly to get a better angle and in Neal's ear the young man whispered softly, "Clinton says 'hey'". With that he jumped up, grabbed the pile of steel chains, and stepped through the door quickly, shoving it close behind him, and clicking all the locks into place. Neal remained sprawled on the floor, his back against the wall, while a soft warm glow began to spread inside him.

If Neal had looked up, he would have noticed the curly white light bulb moving ever so slightly to the left.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Standing in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn Express Hotel, shielding his eyes against the morning sun, Peter Burke watched his much loved wife, Elizabeth, drive away in the rented blue Prius with mixed feelings. On the one hand he hated to see her go alone to the maximum security Lompoc Federal Penitentiary packed full of murderers and rapists, in order to visit Neal Caffrey who had apparently been ferreted away there a few weeks ago, not yet been added to the general population, so was probably in solitary somewhere in the prison. He didn't have much hope they would allow her to give him the brownies she had baked. The FBI agent wanted badly to be at her side or better yet to go instead and spare her. But he was expressly forbidden from contacting Caffrey and it was just by chance that Elizabeth had met many of the wardens' wives at an event last year and had a connection which served her well. So here he was, left behind, totally useless. As soon as she pulled into traffic and out of sight, Burke picked up his cell phone and punched in Jones' cell number. He was relieved when his agent picked up immediately.

"Jones, are you alone?" asked Burke, sensitive to the fact he might get his agent in trouble with Hughes.

"Great timing," said Jones. "I am on a smoking break."

"Good," said Burke. "Have you found out anything more?"

"Whatever happened was put into play when Neal called his brother," answered Jones, his voice just above a whisper. "He used some sort of weird satellite phone that can't be traced. It totally sent the CIA into panic mode. Switching to Gaelic didn't help either," added Jones"

"Gaelic?" repeated Burke, confused. "Neal speaks Irish? How did you find this out?"

"If you really want to know," warned Jones. "My sister's boyfriend's roommate works for the CIA, in the encryption division and languages. Remember the guy at my birthday party who had the allergic reaction to the bee sting and we had to call the paramedics? That's Dave. He was tasked with finding an Irish language translator who told him Neal and his brother were speaking some kind of primitive Gaelic dialect which isn't usually spoken today. The CIA feels Neal was deliberately trying to communicate nefarious information to his brother who is apparently in Pakistan, or at least the call was picked up near the province of Sindu."

"Ouch," said Peter outloud. Could it get much worse?

"They're jumping to conclusions," speculated Jones. "Dave said that sometimes the translators they hire aren't all that great, especially with more obscure languages. A bad translator almost got a woman deported back to Indonesia recently until they discovered he barely knew the language."

"That's true," reflected Burke. He had had his own bad experiences with translators.

"Something fishy is going on," opined Jones. "I know Neal. He's many things - but he's no terrorist."

"Terrorist!" gasped Burke. "Who thinks he's a terrorist?"

"What else could it be?" asked Jones. "After you left yesterday, a couple of guys from the CIA were here. We were all questioned one-by-one about what we knew about Neal. That was definitely the drift their questions were going. If you ask me - he's being framed."

Good for Jones, thought Peter to himself. That man was level-headed to the core - and loyal.

"I better get back," Jones said. "Try to pick up a cold on the way home. Hughes isn't buying the sick days," advised Jones.

"Yeah, I'll do that" Peter said with a slight laugh. But he knew it was pointless to put one over on his boss. Hughes knew exactly where he was - and why. There would hell to pay when he returned to the office but he imagined it would pale in comparison to what Neal was going through.

Peter walked slowly back to the hotel, crossing the asphalt parking lot, nearly bumping into a palm tree, so deep in thought. As he entered his empty hotel room, Peter remembered all the things he learned about Neal Caffrey during the three years he had chased him, his likes and dislikes, his skills, his MOs; there was no doubt Burke knew his prey well. This knowledge paid off for Peter was finally able to catch him - and the charges stuck. But during all that time it never occurred to Peter to see Neal as a friend-worthy person. He had hardly given Neal a thought during the nearly four years he was incarcerated and it bothered him not at all. Now that he had worked with him for a year, Peter saw so much potential in Neal. That was why he had taken him to visit his brother Philip in Sing Sing. He wanted him to see what could happen if he didn't start taking his life seriously. Little could Peter have guessed how serious Neal's life would get.

Thinking on it, Peter could not quite tell when Neal had progressed from felon to friend to family, well almost. Elizabeth seemed to think of Neal as family - the way she had worried over him, even baked him the brownies she would never allow her own husband to eat. Peter wasn't sure what he was going to do with her had her plan not worked for coming out to California to visit Neal. And in many ways Peter felt closer to Neal than to his own brother. But wasn't blood supposed to be thicker than water?

Peter was reluctant to admit even to himself how desperately worried he was for Neal. He knew he wasn't a terrorist - someone had badly gotten their wires crossed. But once the CIA takes off with something - it could be almost impossible to stop them. He hoped Elizabeth's visit would provide some information he could use to get Neal home - working with him where he belonged. So he paced. Around and around the small hotel room.

After walking around in circles for a half hour, Peter decided to take his circling outside and began walking around the block. It took him nearly an hour to figure out there was no block, that he had been walking in a straight line, past the little local airport, over the bridge spanning the dry river bed, and was approaching a long steep grade when his dark thoughts broke and he looked up. Where the hell am I? he asked himself, looking around at empty meadows inhabited by eucalyptus trees and Manzanita bushes. Nothing looked familiar. He turned on his heel and retraced his steps. He couldn't believe he had walked so far. Where was his mind? Where was the town?

Peter broke into a trot when he finally saw the hotel's sign in the distance. He had wanted to have everything packed before El got back so they could leave right away. He was already dreading the trip home and the layers of security he would need to go through since he was carrying his gun. If they didn't get to the airport early they would miss the flight. Reaching the hotel, Peter ran to their room and started throwing things in suitcases. Elizabeth would yell at him later when she opened them in New York but he had wasted too much time to pack carefully now.

Just as he was closing the last bag, Peter spied Elizabeth's rented blue Prius pulling into the parking lot of the hotel. He grabbed their suitcases, ran down the stairs, greeted his excited wife with a "Hi, Honey!" and threw their luggage into the backseat of the car. He then dashed over to the hotel office, tossed the hotel card to the startled desk clerk with a "Send me the receipt!" and galloped back to the car where Elizabeth was standing with her mouth open.

"Are you sure you got everything, Peter?" Elizabeth asked dubiously, as her husband gently nudged her toward the passenger side of the Prius. "Did you look under the bed? In the bathroom? Did you get my hair dryer? Maybe I better go check."

"No time, honey," said Peter. "We have to get going, we can talk on the way." He reached down to fasten her seatbelt.

"I can do my own seatbelt!" exclaimed Elizabeth, swatting his hands away. "What's with you?"

"Nothing, nothing" answered Peter, closing her door and moving quickly to the other side of the car. "Just want to get on the road, that's all."

Elizabeth accepted that answer because like many men, Peter liked to get where he was going in the shortest time possible. Peter hated stopping the car until they reached their destination be it 10 miles or 1,000 miles. Through many years Elizabeth had patiently retrained Peter out of this annoying habit and to some extent she had succeeded - but today it reared it's ugly head but she decided to keep quiet as she knew the issue of Neal was weighing heavily on her husband's mind.

So thanks to Peter, they were on the road to Santa Barbara a scarce hour after Elizabeth last saw Neal in the visitors' room.

"Well, honey?" prompted Peter, settling back into his seat. "How is Neal doing? You saw him - right? What did you find out?"

"He's very…confused," said Elizabeth, uncertain. "No one has told him anything, he hasn't been questioned, he doesn't know why he is here. We barely had any time together. And they're being really mean to him."

"Mean?" asked Peter.

"Yes, they were yelling at him and pushing him around. They had him chained up so tight he could barely walk. And he…" she paused. It was hard seeing the images in her mind.

"He what?" prompted Peter, glancing over at her.

"He cried," she said, tears welling up in own eyes at the memory. "He looked so sad."

He cried? That isn't good, thought Peter to himself, worriedly. "Did he say anything about his brother?" asked Peter, deciding not to comment on the crying part. Neal had survived over four years in a maximum security prison, surely this can't be that much different. But why was he crying?

"No, not much. Just his name - Colin O'Mara," answered Elizabeth. "He was really surprised when I brought up his brother. Like he had no idea why I was asking."

Well, that's something, thought Peter. Maybe it was all a mistake. Could the CIA have gone this far adrift in their investigation? Or was this a vendetta spinning from the hand of a master revenger? Who had Neal offended, who was this highly placed where they could do this amount of damage?

Peter decided retracing their route back on Hwy. 246 to the 101 would probably be faster than traveling scenic Hwy. 1 to Gaviota which was actually shorter mileage-wise. As they looked out the car windows at mile after mile of rows of green grapevines striping every nook and cranny of hill and valley as far as their eyes could see, Elizabeth talked to Peter about her visit. She was worried that Neal had lost a lot of weight, that he was emotionally spent, even that he desperately needed a bath. Peter let her talk but part of his mind was taken up with keeping an eye on the grey Ford Focus that had been following them since leaving the hotel. He was trying not to lose the car because he was a firm believer in the enemy you see is far better than the enemy you don't. Burke watched the manner of the tailing and soon came to the conclusion it was classic CIA. They tended to follow much further back than was recommended by the FBI. It was not a great shock to Peter that the CIA was following them. Who else had the dubious authority to kidnap an American citizen and hold him without access to attorney nor judge, thanks to 911?

A scant forty-five minutes later, Peter pulled off the freeway at the Fairview exit after finally reaching the outskirts of Santa Barbara, a suburb called Goleta. Peter drove the last remaining miles quickly as there was little traffic and soon was pulling into the parking lot reserved for Enterprise rental cars at the small local airport. As he pushed the power button on the car's dashboard turning the car off, he turned to Elizabeth with a gentle smile. He didn't want to alarm her so he didn't tell her about the car following them nor that it had probably tailed her back from the penitentiary as well. Before he opened his door, he turned to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Honey," Peter said tenderly, "we can't talk about this anymore until we get home. We'll figure it out then. Okay?" He was proud of her that she didn't look alarmed but just nodded silently as though reading his thoughts. But she could not resist looking around her apprehensively and Peter hoped she would not see the Ford Focus pulling into the next lot over. Peter jumped out of the Prius and ran around to open Elizabeth's door. Ten years married and it was his pleasure to still open doors for her.

The two flights back to New York were as long as Peter had feared they would be and getting through security had been just as aggravating as on the trip out to California earlier that week. Because Peter insisted on taking his weapon with him on the plane instead of putting it into his checked baggage, they almost missed the flight out of Los Angeles International Airport.

Arriving home, their little house had never seemed so welcoming and Peter could barely wait to fall into bed. But there was something that needed to be done first and he picked up their phone and made the call.

"Mozzie?" he said when the connection was made. "Would you like to come over for dinner?" After exchanging a few pleasantries with Neal's friend, Peter put the phone down and began thumbing through restaurant menus for take-out that Elizabeth kept under the phone. Elizabeth certainly wasn't going to feel like cooking dinner. But it was imperative that Mozzie come over immediately and sweep the house for bugs or any other newly planted electrical devices.

While waiting for Mozzie to arrive at his doorstep, Peter made a cursory google search for the name Neal told Elizabeth and the only person he came up with was a politician in Delaware who he seriously doubted was connected to Neal but he would check it out when he got to work in the morning. He was eager to check the FBI databases but knew it would look very suspicious if he went in this evening.

Having placed his take-out order at their favorite pizzeria, Peter leaned back on the sofa and tried to sort out his thoughts. What was the CIA doing with Neal Caffrey?. An American held in a secret prison, i.e., the basement of Lompoc Penitentiary, without recourse to the legal system, probably not read his Miranda rights. There was only one scenario where the government had acted similarly in the past - where the constitution was ignored and civil rights trampled. But how in the world did Neal get branded a terrorist and how did Colin O'Mara factor into this? Was this truly his brother and was he living in Pakistan? And how soon would the CIA move Neal out of the country to a secret prison to do as they willed to him? That was the question that worried him most.

Meanwhile Neal spent another long and uneventful day in his basement cell. Back to being ignored by the guards, he practiced yoga, perfected several museum heists, stole the Mona Lisa and then returned it, and replayed his visit with Elizabeth in his mind while working out by running in place for what seemed like an hour but he suspected was probably more like five minutes. He tried to keep his mind off New York and his life at June's. It was too painful to think about. As he guessed evening was approaching as he could hear the changing of the guards from down the hall, he got ready for lights-out and his dinner. Why the guards waited until so late to bring him his final meal of the day, Neal could never figure out, perhaps it was just to torment him further. Now that he was convinced he had done nothing to earn this cruel treatment he found he was resenting it more by the hour and his anger was becoming harder to keep in check. His glimpse of Elizabeth had made everything all that more intolerable.

Promptly at 10:00 p.m. the curly white light bulb went out and total darkness engulfed Neal once again. Shortly after he heard the clang of steel on steel he slowly felt his way to his door and pulled his tray from the hatch. Making his way back to his bed, he begin to examine the items on the tray. One cheese sandwich - check. One carton of non-fat milk - check. One apple - check. Two cookies - check. Cookies? Carefully Neal picked the cookies up and ran his finger over them feeling the tiny bumps of chocolate chips (with walnuts!) and also something - else. His finger touched a small piece of paper folded over and then over again, hidden between the cookies. What did it mean? What was written on it? He would have to wait until morning to find out. Frustration welled up in him and the tray went flying, bouncing off the wall with a bang and scattering its contents over the small cell. It would take him awhile to find his dinner now but he didn't care. Someone had sent him a note that he would have to wait until morning to read - or perhaps it wasn't a note at all but only a blank piece of paper intended to torture him yet more. He told himself he didn't care, he wasn't going to waste time worrying about it. He placed the note in his left slipper and set about the task of crawling around his cell retrieving his dinner. He simply would not think about it until morning.

Five miles away, the CIA agent staying, coincidently, at the Holiday Inn Express Hotel was quite pleased with the night vision camera he had convinced his boss to buy for this case. Tax dollars well spent, he concluded with satisfaction. But where had that note come from and what did it say?


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Reece Hughes sat at his desk staring unseeingly at his new Hewlett-Packard computer screen. He wasn't fond of computers and he seldom used them. He had his agents to fetch information for him when he felt the need for it and the rest of the time he preferred the old time-tested hands-on methods of investigation which rarely failed - unlike his new computer which always seemed to be wrestling with some inner esoteric issue beyond his technical understanding. He often thought fondly of the past and he never failed to count his blessings that he joined the FBI when the Bureau was at its' zenith. He still had a bust of J. Edgar Hoover around even though he doubted if these agents today knew who he was. Hughes met Hoover shortly after joining the FBI and it was the proudest day of his life. The framed photo of the brief meeting sat in an honored spot on his desk and there was not a day that he didn't carefully pick it up and dust it off. So he found it especially galling to be in this predicament at what he accepted was the beginning of the end of his proud FBI career. If the Bureau didn't kick him out soon he knew his wife would. When it came down to it, there would be no choice. Much as he loved the FBI, Margaret would always have the final word.

But that final word was not to be quite yet. Always a man of utmost character he had grown uneasy over this Caffrey affair and not just because his best case agent, Burke, was driving him, and the rest of the office, crazy. It seemed cut and dried in the beginning, he was assured by trusted friends that the evidence was solid. So Hughes had no moral qualms about handing Caffrey over to the Central Intelligence Agency although he did it with more reluctance than anyone guessed. He liked the young man and saw potential in him. He thought of himself as a good judge of character and this lapse disturbed him. Maybe it was indeed time to 'hang up his hat'. Yet he wasn't at all pleased with the intel he received from Jones whose cousin, Lester, worked at Lompoc Penitentiary, nor from another of the young agent's friends who was some sort of technician in the CIA labs. Jones was a font of information and would soon be promoted although Hughes was careful to give him no indication of the good news at this time. He knew Jones was helping Burke and he wanted to see how it played out. An agent's loyalty should be to the Bureau first although an occasional meandering could be overlooked. However, it was very early in Jones's career for too many meanderings. The promotion could wait a few more weeks.

That anyone should be deprived of their constitutional rights made Hughes extremely uneasy yet he understood the need for it after 911 but to keep Caffrey locked in isolation for days on end for no discernable purpose? Just what was going on? After doing his own painstaking investigation through his personal long-established and secret resources, I.e., his golfing buddies, retired CIA agents - Hughes was begrudgingly allowed access to the actual evidence on which the arrest was based and after listening to it, he had serious doubts. The CIA heard plotting, scheming, and an American turning traitor while Hughes heard 'grandmother', 'chickenpox' and a funny story about two toddler brothers getting lost in the Louvre. Where was Burke's mind that he had taken Caffrey to Sing Sing, anyway? Why couldn't Caffrey just speak English, for god's sake? And what the hell was Colin O'Mara, a middle school teacher from a small hamlet in Ireland, doing in Pakistan?

The senior agent was also deeply conflicted as to what his next step should be. His CIA pals, initially so available, now did not return his calls. Then when he finally got through, no one listened to his fears. "The guy's a felon - who cares?" was the repeatede response. "Relax. If he's innocent, it'll come out." So Hughes found himself equally torn by two opposing forces - stay out of it and let the CIA take care of Caffrey. After all, the CIA wouldn't sink precious resources to go after someone who wasn't a terrorist, right? Or join Burke in getting Caffrey out of their clutches. What to do?

The old man knew there would be no turning back once he made his decision. But he realized he could make his decision without being encumbered by consequential worries. His pension was secure, he would be gone soon. His only compass was his own moral north star. Perhaps Hughes had been desk bound for too long, perhaps he missed the excitement of field work but whatever the motivating factor, he found himself picking up his phone and summoning Burke to his office. He had kept his agent tied to his desk, figuratively, since returning from California and that hadn't helped matters between them.

Summoned, Peter Burke slowly made his way to Hughes' office, his feet literally dragging, his body language evident for all to see. Fortunately it wasn't a large office so Burke arrived at his superior's door within a minute. "Yes?" he drawled in the doorway, one hand on the door knob, ready to bolt. His face was expressionless, his eyes guarded and he looked past Hughes, out the window to the New York skyline and beyond.

"Come in, shut the door," Hughes ordered briskly, pointing Burke to a seat in front of him. Burke hesitated a moment, then came inside and shut the door, too loudly, behind him. Dropping into one of Hughes' chairs, he sat there silently, his arms crossed over his chest. If he had any curiosity as to what his boss wanted, it wasn't apparent in his dark brown eyes.

"What are you doing about Caffrey?" asked Hughes, coming to the point immediately.

Burke's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Wha…er…I…" he stammered, caught offguard.

"Caffrey's going to be in a secret CIA prison soon if you keep screwing around with this," Hughes predicted to his agent.

"You told me…" began Burke, bewildered.

"Have you contacted Interpol? What do you know about this brother?" interrupted Hughes, while tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk.

"I contacted Interpol. They didn't have much information. Middle school teacher, lives in some tiny village in Ireland. Hasn't seen Neal in a couple of decades," Burke answered, surprised at Hughes' renewed interest in the case. "Unless I fly to Ireland myself, I am not likely to find out anything else," remarked Peter warily.

"Why haven't you done that?" asked Hughes, feigning innocence.

"Because you forbade it!" exclaimed Burke, astonished. Was the old man going senile? Peter booked the flight a few days ago but was hauled back from the airport as soon as he boarded the plane. He had quite a scuffle with the airport police in the process too and was still sporting a bruise on his calf. Somehow his name magically appeared on the "No Fly" list seconds AFTER sitting down in his seat - and gee - who could be responsible for that?

"Oh, right," said Hughes. He had discovered that there were many perks to old age, not the least of which was pretending forgetfulness. "So you don't know if this brother is actually in Ireland - or Pakistan - or if the connection was somehow manipulated to appear that way?" Although Hughes had no faith in technology per se he had a great deal of faith in its' ability to mess everything up.

"Er…no," admitted Burke. Just how much did Hughes know anyway?

"So - what IS your plan? What are YOU going to do?" demanded Hughes, beginning to speak in capitalizations to Burke's surprise.

"Well…," started Burke, "I've been trying to find out what evidence the CIA has against Caffrey, who alerted them, what Neal actually said to his brother that got them so stirred up, figuring out how I can get a court order…"

"Blah, blah, blah," said Hughes, interrupting rudely. "And in the meantime the CIA flies Caffrey away to some god-forsaken third-world country, tosses him into a secret prison never to be heard from again."

"Okkkkkay…what would you suggest…?"

"This can be sorted out later," Hughes decided. "We've got to get him back to New York, away from the CIA."

"YOU have a plan?" challenged Burke with a capitalization of his own. First Hughes gives Neal over to the CIA, then he rescues him from the CIA. Was Hughes lacking for excitement in his life?

"Peter," sighed Hughes. "I believe Caffrey was actually talking to his brother - Colin - in Ireland. But someone - somewhere - and for some reason - rigged the call through a Pakistani terrorist named Khalin Omarah, who I believe is in Sindu, to appear as if it was actually going to this terrorist with a similar sounding name in Pakistan. Someone in the CIA knows where Omarah is - and is protecting him - sacrificing Neal instead. I assume the technology is available to do that?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "Probably. In other words, someone deliberately framed Neal?" What could Neal possibly have done to anyone that would make them want to destroy him? Or was he just a convenient tool?

"Yes, It would appear that Neal was framed," agreed Hughes. "I think by someone much higher than either of us." Which meant he made a very serious mistake in handing Caffrey over and basically this was all his fault. He wondered how long it would take for Burke to reach that conclusion as well.

"Why haven't you taken this to the CIA?" demanded Burke. Why has he been running around like a chicken with its head cut off the past two weeks when all Hughes had to do was explain it to the CIA? Why, why, oh, why?

"I did take it to the CIA," said Hughes. "Unfortunately they do not agree. They've studied the tapes, they are convinced the call was made to Pakistan, no hokey-pokey with the electronics, and that the conversation Neal had with his 'brother' was encoded, that they passed valuable information back and forth while talking in some old dialectic Irish, and they are afraid that Neal is involved in something potentially as horrific as another 911."

"But how did Neal even get on the CIA's radar?" asked, Peter. That was the question that had puzzled him from Day One.

"Someone reported him to the CIA," said Hughes, "and they ran with it."

"But what purpose would it serve?" asked Peter.

"Neal is a 'red herring', the CIA thinks they have their terrorist but I feel the real terrorist is getting away to wreck his vengeance on us," said Hughes. "Only someone very close to Neal could pull this off. They knew of his brother's similar sounding name to the Pakistani terrorist, they would know meeting Philip would make Neal miss his brother Colin and that he would call him in Ireland, then they could mix the lines up so his call went through Omarah's network in Pakistan, alerting the CIA."

"Who knows Neal this well?" asked Peter, totally stumped.

"You know him that well, don't you?" asked Hughes, looking at Peter over his glasses. "After all you tracked him for three years. You know everything from his blood type to which shoe he puts on first in the morning. You took him to visit Philip in Sing Sing which started this whole mess."

"Me!," exclaimed Peter, taken aback. "I had no idea he had a brother in Ireland; he never contacted any family during the whole time I was chasing him. I had nothing…"

"Yes, yes, you didn't know anything about this," Hughes assured him, with a dismissive way of his hand. "But why did you take Caffrey to Sing Sing? Why did you want him to meet Philip?"

"I was trying to show Neal, concretely, what could happen to him if he didn't change the way he was living his life. It was supposed to an object lesson, of sorts," answered Peter miserably. What was the saying? No good deed goes unpunished?

"He's been in prison , he had more than enough examples of what happens…"

"Yes, but I hoped Philip would be different. Philip had a connection to someone Neal…"

"Respected?"

"I guess," agreed Burke, awkwardly. "I don't know! It was a mistake! I am sorry now. But that doesn't help us, does it?"

"No, unfortunately it doesn't," agreed Hughes. "Neal is in serious danger in California. The CIA who runs the secret prisons around the world is a totally different CIA from what operates here in the United States. He will be tortured. He could be killed. In any case, he will not be returned," Hughes declared emphatically. "But I have an idea," Hughes added. "Look up Caffrey's old files, find something that we, the FBI, can charge him with, something that has enough evidence so we can get a warrant."

"Excuse me?" questioned Burke, startled. Hughes wanted to add additional charges onto those already filed by the CIA?

"Calm down, Burke," Hughes ordered even though Burke didn't seem all that excited about the prospect of finding yet more to charge Caffrey with. "If we can get a warrant, we can bring him back to New York where at least he will be treated decently until this all gets hashed out."

"But the CIA is not going to let him go so we can charge him with something more minor," said Burke, although the possibility of at least getting Neal back to New York was already lifting his spirits.

"They have to if our charges are older than their charges and we have jurisdiction," Hughes said. "They will still have a lien on Caffrey, but we'll have possession - and possession is 9/10ths of the law."

"What judge would do that?" asked Burke, doubtful. "Terrorism is a lot worse crime than anything we could find that Caffrey actually did. No judge is going to want to get him away from the CIA."

"You might be right," conceded Hughes. "but 'nothing ventured, nothing gained'. So let's try. Find me something to take to a judge. The sooner the better. Go! Now!" he finished with emphasis and a motion with his hands like he was shooing away invisible dust bunnies. The old man was talked out.

Burke jumped up from his chair, feeling rather dazed. "Why are you doing this?," he asked Hughes. "I don't get it. You were the one who turned Caffrey over to the CIA in the first place."

"I did what I thought was right then. And I am doing what I think is right now. Listen, Burke, you don't get this old without being able to change your mind occasionally.

Burke almost managed a smile at his boss before turning to run out of Hughes' office. Excitedly he called Jones and Ruiz to help him. Before the hour was out they had carted all the boxes to Burke's office that contained Caffrey's old records and began to sift through them, trying to find something serious enough to pry him out of the clutches of the CIA.

Meanwhile 35 miles away, Peter Burke was not the only one getting good news. In Sing Sing, Philip Buchanan found himself called to the Superintendent's office shortly after dinner. The summons had been anticipated for days and Philip could barely contain himself as he entered the airy beautifully decorated office of the famed prison's superintendent. Guards stationed at the door motioned him inside and he soon found himself seated in a very comfy overstuffed red leather armchair, cigar between his thumb and forefinger, and a glass of whiskey in his other hand. Philip had never been much of a drinker but he drank the liquor to celebrate. The taste was bitter in his mouth but the fumes whiffed into his sinuses causing a pleasant but odd sensation. He couldn't quite see the attraction for it, but appreciated the unique experience.

An earnest, average-looking dark-skinned man in his mid 40's, dressed in comfortable chocolate brown slacks and white shirt, open at the neck, with a head of thick straight black hair cut short, was holding a stout sparkling glass up as though starting a toast. He wore round bookish glasses which seemed old-fashioned but in keeping with his classic style and his hands were very soft as if he had stayed indoors his whole life. He was smiling a thick-lipped smile and while doing so showed a lot of very white teeth perfectly spaced as if he was auditioning for an orthodontist commercial for television. Unfortunately his complexion was quite pitted due to suffering from smallpox as a teenager. But his words were soothing and pleasant and his manner of speaking was convincing. A sensitive person, perhaps a Peter Burke, would have picked up on the fact that the man was not being sincere. But Philip Buchanan was not a man of sensitivity. Philip was a man of the here and now. And here and now he was being praised for having been instrumental in the capture of a terrorist, perhaps even averting another September 11, 2001.

The small celebration lasted for awhile as the prisoner and the visitor congratulated one another over their combined success. The visitor told the prisoner that his help had nailed the case, he had truly served his country. The prisoner assured the visitor that he was only doing his duty, incarcerated or not. Back and forth it went until both the visitor and the prisoner exhausted their lies. The prisoner returned to his cell, amazed that his idea actually worked. He knew he was a good storyteller but even he could not imagine his abilities would get him this far. The visitor left unfazed by the prisoner's lies but happy they served his own purpose. If the prisoner had been asked the "why" of his lie he would have shrugged his shoulders and denied understanding the rationale for his own misguided behavior. Yet ask any first year psychology student and they would have recognized the desire to wreck vengeance on a brother who always had success while his own life was nothing but failure. That he condemned an innocent man to torture and perhaps death did not cross his mind.

Back in New York, Peter Burke was late getting home and Elizabeth had waited up for him. Excitedly he told her the news. Not that he actually thought they could find a judge with the clout to drag Neal away from the clutches of the CIA. But it was a step in the right direction and in any case, he was glad to be on the same side as his boss again, a man he respected. Elizabeth made hot cocoa and added a couple of fluffy marshmallows in each cup. The couple cuddled side-by-side on the sofa with their mugs of chocolate and talked about the last few stressful weeks. They talked of Neal and actually whispered a small prayer for him together. Lapsed Catholic or not, Peter had been known to say a prayer or two throughout his FBI career. Would all their efforts be in vain? Could they get Neal out in time?

On the other side of the country , Neal lay on his hard cot wrapped up tightly in his woolen blanket, unable to sleep. Why should someone smuggle a note to him here - between cookies? And why was there nothing on the folded piece of paper except a large "X" printed in Trebuchet font? Only he, Kate and Mozzie knew about the significance of "the classics". His mind wandered, trying to unravel the puzzle. Trebuchet - medieval catapult? Catapult -device to get out of here? Was he reading too much into it? Was it a message of comfort - or a taunt? Although it was annoying to be kept awake by his thoughts, at least he had something concrete to think about.

Keeping Neal awake was also the very real possibility that the FBI would contact his brother in Ireland. He tried to tell Elizabeth to tell Peter to leave his brother alone, Colin knew nothing of his life these past 20 years. Neal would rather go back to jail than cause his only brother a moment's concern, to change his life in any way. The thought of the FBI showing up on the doorstep of the quaint moss-covered cottage where they were raised, to imagine sun-glassed, dark suited-men interrogating Colin O'Mara, the middle school teacher - the image sent shivers down Neal's spine. It would be the scandal of the village for decades to come, his brother's life would be forever tainted. But still - hearing Colin's voice on the phone had been so wonderful, although he much regretted it now. Dredging up the cherished old Irish words from his childhood, words passed down from their great-grandparents, words kept in his heart. Neal was surprised how quickly the dialect returned to him, how smoothly he transitioned from American English to old Gaelic; in two minutes it was as though he had never stopped speaking it. The words echoed in his ears, sweet and golden and every syllable precious. How possibly could that call have led to his present predicament he could not puzzle through.

Turning over in his cot and wrapping the blanket tighter yet around him, Neal wondered how much longer he would be here, how much more of this he could take. He hated being by himself; this was the first time in his memory he had ever been truly lonely. He was mortified to discover he was getting sick to death of his own company. If he had only known how drastically his life was about to change yet again - and very soon.

A few miles away from there a CIA agent was phoning his supervisor on an encrypted phone. "The prison in Albania is finished. We're having a slight problem with one of the officials who is demanding a bigger bribe. But that should be settled soon." After hanging up, the agent wondered again about the note that had been smuggled in to Caffrey. What did the "X" mean and why wouldn't that idiot Warden Jimenez allow the CIA to interrogate him? Well, soon enough that would all change, the agent thought with satisfaction. And he could get out of this no where little town with its flower fields, murals, and fog. His allergies had never been so bad.


	6. Chapter 6

Road Trip

Chapter 6

Mozzie was disappointed he was not enjoying Neal's apartment as much as he imagined he would. June kindly allowed him to stay until Neal returned as she was of an age where she liked a 'man in the house'. Mozzie was grateful for the upgrade in accommodations yet it should have been Neal who was living here, not him. Neal enjoyed the good life while Mozzie was happy just to survive another day on his own terms and not be beholden to anyone. He wasn't sure if staying at June's made him beholden to her, should he pay rent or something? Isn't that what normal people did? But she assured him that the FBI was still paying her $700 a month and she would take nothing from him. He didn't know how he felt about that. For all his con artist ways, a heist was one thing, charity another.

While staying at Neal's, Mozzie was careful to keep everything exactly as Neal so abruptly left it. Well, that was after Mozzie picked the place up after the authorities carted Neal off. They searched the entire house to June's dismay but Neal's apartment they turned upside down, little realizing that most of the stuff in it belonged to June, not to Neal. It was no surprise to Mozzie when Peter told him the CIA was involved in Neal's arrest but it did perplex him. There were long periods when he was out of touch with Neal but he never imagined the young con artist would get tangled up with anything of interest to the CIA. Neal always had a finely tuned sense of how far he could go.

Following his routine of the last three weeks, as the sun was going down over the city, Mozzie boiled water for tea before sitting down in front of Neal's seldom used TV to watch the nightly news. Tonight, however, his routine was interrupted by a knock at the door. He would have been instantly on alert had not Peter Burke called earlier asking if he could come and bring dinner. Burke learned early on that Mozzie required quite different handling than Neal and it was in his best interest to spend a little extra time catering to his different personality.

Opening Neal's door, Peter was there smiling. The agent came laden with dinner from a nearby Chinese restaurant - kung pao chicken, fried rice, egg rolls, and finally two fortune cookies. Not gourmet exactly but then Mozzie was not as difficult to please as Neal when it came to food. Peter laid out the cartons of food in Neal's small kitchen, reaching up into his cupboards to find plates and then into his drawer to fish out a couple pair of chopsticks. When Peter finished emptying the food from the cardboard containers onto both plates, he carried them to the sofa where Mozzie was sitting and handed him his dinner, being careful to add the little packet of soy sauce the restaurant tucked in the take-out bag. Elizabeth forbade him indulging in such a high sodium condiment and he liked to please her in the small things when he could because she pleased him so much in the big things.

The two men ate in silence while watching the evening news. Peter could not concentrate on current events while trying to think of a way to elicit Mozzie's help without getting him over excited. Mozzie had been traumatized by Neal's "abduction", as he called it. It was one thing to imagine the government was out to get you - quite another to see the government actually abscond with a good friend. Mozzie was not been present for the actual arrest but he arrived soon after and the look on June's face far surpassed his worse fears. Peter appreciated that for Mozzie to talk to him, an "agent for the imperialist government" - the same government that took away Neal, was difficult. Caffrey knew Mozzie for years and understood how to approach him to keep him even keeled but Peter was just learning and he did not want to make any mistakes and doom his very vital mission. He understood Mozzie's feelings about dealing with the FBI, asking him to get involved with the CIA might well push him over the edge.

After the meal was eaten and the news was over, Mozzie clicked the TV off with the remote and, still facing forward, asked, "OK, what do you want?"

"Mozzie," Peter started, "We have a plan to help Neal. But we need you." They were having no luck finding a suitable case to bring to a judge, either heists were too old or too minor to get an arrest warrant. Mozzie was their last hope. Mozzie would know if there was something in Neal's past that would merit the attention of a judge.

"I am listening," Mozzie replied. He did follow through, carefully listening to what Burke told him although he could not meet the agent's eyes. Looking in the eyes of an FBI agent, even Peter Burke, still unnerved him. As he began to get the drift of what Peter wanted and why he wanted it, another part of his brain started to shuffle through what he knew of Neal's life. This was going to be tricky. Find something serious - but not too serious; recent - but not too recent. Be able to supply evidence - but not too much evidence to actually get Neal convicted.

A year ago the idea that Mozzie would be supplying information to a FBI agent - well, Mozzie would have said he would have torn his eyes out first. But now here he was, actually contemplating it. To save Neal, his best friend, with whom he was occasionally conflicted. Neal, who was all about Neal - and Kate. He could not remember a time that Neal had shown the slightest interest in Mozzie's life. Or perhaps there had been a time - before Kate - but it was so long ago that it was barely a fuzzy memory. Yet being around Neal was exciting and for all that, Neal did not deserve what happened to him and thus Mozzie found himself willing to make the ultimate sacrifice - rat Neal out to the FBI.

Mozzie was silent for a moment, trying to think back nearly seven years ago. What were they doing then? Was that the year they switched "Blue Boy" at the Huntington Library or was that the year Neal stole those gold coins from the collection of the Attorney General? So many heists to remember, he sometimes got them confused. Although there was one heist that was particularly memorable but he wasn't sure he should mention it as he didn't know if it actually occurred.

"Er…there was one that might be appropriate," Mozzie offered. "I am not sure exactly of the date, though," Mozzie waffled.

"What is it?" Peter asked, "Tell me."

"It was one that was never…solved," Mozzie said.

"All the better," said Burke.

"I need assurances…" Mozzie said, cautious as always.

"I promise you, we're not going to use it against Neal," said Peter. "We are just trying to get something to give to a judge to get an arrest warrant so we can go to California and bring him home."

"Home?" questioned Mozzie, suspiciously.

"Okay - Rikers, then!" said Peter impatiently. "Believe me, Mozzie, Rikers would be a paradise to what Neal is going through now."

"And then what?" asked Mozzie.

"I don't know 'and then what'," answered Peter honestly. "Hopefully we can get the new charges dismissed once we've figured the CIA thing out. If not, he might have to go to a minimum security facility for a year or two. It is that kind of heist, isn't it? You're not thinking of anything that's going to get Neal locked back up in a maximum security prison again, are you?"

"I am not sure…" said Mozzie, uncertainly.

"Then tell me what it is, and I'll tell you if it is minimum security prison or maximum security prison worthy."

"But then you'll know," pointed out Mozzie logically.

"I'll pretend I don't know," promised Burke, patiently. "if we can use it, great. If we can't, we won't. I promise I'll never use it against Neal."

FBI promises. Mozzie didn't like the sound of that. But what choice did he have? He must help his friend any way he could. He shook his head. The depths he was sinking to. He hardly recognized himself.

"Well," he began reluctantly, "about six years ago, I am not sure, Neal developed a yen for autographs."

"Autographs?" repeated Peter, cluelessly. This did not sound promising.

"Er…yes," Mozzie said. "It got to be kind of a hobby with him for awhile."

"And…?" prompted Peter.

"He started collecting them. Not movie stars. Historical figures. George Washington, Jefferson, Henry Ford - those sort of people. Kate and I both thought he'd gone around the bend. But it seemed harmless enough so we indulged him. Until he set his sights on one..."

"And…? prompted Peter.

"The autograph of William Shakespeare. It was right here in New York. And Neal wanted it. Badly."

"Wow!" Peter said, impressed. "How much was it worth?"

"Twelve million or so," said Mozzie. "Six years ago."

"TWELVE MILLION DOLLARS?" exclaimed Peter, flabbergasted. This was a figure worthy of capitalization. For a piece of paper?

"So it was said," replied Mozzie.

"Did he steal it?" asked Peter, hopefully.

"I don't know," answered Mozzie honestly. "It was stolen. Neal had something that looked like it but I don't know if it was real or a forgery. Sometimes he likes to brag."

"Oh, you DO know!" accused Peter, leaping up from his chair. "You're trying to protect him!"

"No, I don't know!" insisted Mozzie. "Kate might have helped him, he didn't ask me."

Peter reflected for a moment. All well and good but what evidence did they have of Neal's involvement? "Was it recovered?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Mozzie.

"What proof is there of any of this?" asked Peter.

"I have a picture of Neal with it," offered Mozzie helpfully.

"You took a photo of Neal with a twelve million dollar Shakespeare autograph?"

"We were fooling around. I was trying out the camera on my new…phone. When they first came out with cameras. I took a picture of Neal with what he said was a twelve million dollar Shakespeare autograph."

"Do you still have the photo?" asked Peter, holding his breath. This might just indeed do the trick.

Slowly Mozzie pulled out his phone, flipped it open, and painstakingly dialed through hundreds of photographs until he stopped at one. Holding the phone out to Peter at arm's length, Peter took it from him. Indeed, there was Neal with a big satisfied smile, holding a framed piece of paper in front of him but it was difficult to see what was written on it. Peter doubted if Neal would be stupid enough to allow himself to be photographed with a twelve million dollar stolen prize. If that was the case, Peter was embarrassed it had taken him so long to catch Neal the first time.

"I don't know," said Peter uncertainly. "I can't read what it says on the paper he's holding."

"Have it blown up by your lab," suggested Mozzie confidently. Peter quickly sent the photo to his email address and handed the phone back to Mozzie. He doubted it was the actual autograph. But if he could convince the judge that it might be, then perhaps they could get a warrant for Neal's arrest and extradition back to New York and out of the clutches of the CIA.

Getting up to leave, Peter paused. "Thanks, Mozzie. I really appreciate the help and I am sure Neal will too."

Mozzie shrugged his shoulders. He was a modest man and didn't want Peter to make a big deal out of it. He rose from his chair in order to see Peter out the small studio apartment. He was eager to be alone. Not many people knew he had a mild case of Asperger's Syndrome and that the stress of socializing sometimes weighed heavily on him. He was worn out from the extended conversation and was eager to crawl into Neal's bed while he still could.

As soon as Peter Burke got into his car, parked near the curb in front of June's beautiful house, he leaned back in the carseat and closed his eyes, exhausted. The visit with Mozzie had gone as well as he could have hoped; he'd tried to keep it light and not to worry Neal's friend. But he doubted if they could do anything with Neal's autograph heist. Peter knew from past experience Caffrey had a tendency to exaggerate his exploits on occasion and this caper had the same feel to it. He couldn't in conscience take it to a judge if he suspected it was a lie.

As Burke sat in his car, he noticed sweat on his brow and he felt a weight on his chest that worried him. He hadn't mentioned the pain to Elizabeth that morning for fear she would drag him to the hospital and he would lose precious time trying to free Neal. His last year's physical had been fine; no problems. So he wasn't unduly concerned but still he knew that for a man of his age to ignore chest pains – well, it probably wasn't the smartest thing he was doing Not that he would really call them 'chest pains' per se. The pain was more like a heavy weight that mirrored the weight on his mind these anxious past few weeks.

The messages from Jones' cousin in Lompoc were getting more dire by the day and Burke found himself tensing up every time Jones walked up to him. Lester had a guard's intuition that something was about to happen soon with Neal and his intuition suggested it would not be good. Even the correctional officers were jittery, Lester said. None of them liked working in the basement, away from their usual routine, and were threatening to go to their union soon if the situation wasn't remedied.

Burke could not remember a time he felt more frustrated. Every avenue he turned on led to a dead-end. Every lead fizzled. None of his friends at the CIA would talk to him much less help. Everyone he turned to failed him. Starting the car, Peter put it into drive, and slowly moved into traffic. Where was that church Neal and he went to on that first case they worked on? Perhaps there was one hand yet to be played.

In Lompoc, Neal unknowingly spent his last full day in California. It turned out to be an eventful day, as well. The light scarcely came on in his cell when he heard commotion outside his door reminiscent of the time the guards dragged him to the visiting room to see Elizabeth. Did he have another visitor? Had Peter finally come? He tried not to let his imagination take off - not that his imagination had much time to wander as his cell door was quickly unlocked and then swung open. Two no-nonsense guards were standing there dressed in full riot gear. Their huge frames were massive and loomed up to the ceiling. Neal hardly had a moment to wonder where the state of California found such giants to guard their prisoners when one of the correctional officers lumbered in and grabbed Neal by his shoulders, swiftly lifting him off the cot and holding him in mid-air, his feet dangling off the floor.

The guard, his face hidden by a metal mask, didn't bother asking questions. He gave Neal a good shake until his slippers fell off and the smuggled note as well. The other guard reached down and scooped the folded piece of paper up in a thickly gloved hand. From his position near the ceiling, Neal looked over and saw the small webcam located behind the light fixture. Ohmygod! They had been watching him all this time! He felt like throwing up. Which would have been unfortunate for the guard holding him but having gotten what they came for, the guard tossed Neal down on the cot. The two giants then backed out of the cell and slammed the door shut with a thud.

Neal huddled on his cot shaking. Before the guards arrived he was freezing, the basement cell was damp and cold nearly all the time but especially so at night. This early morning visitation got his heart racing to such a degree that he spent several minutes concentrating to slow it down, a skill he learned long ago in Tibet. Neal wondered if the CIA would have better luck figuring out the note than he did. He desperately hoped whoever smuggled it to him was smart enough to leave no fingerprints or DNA evidence behind.

Now he knew he was being watched, Neal was frantic to recall what they might have observed him doing the past weeks. Yoga, stretching exercises, running in place, running in circles, shadowboxing, painting famous portraits with his finger on the hard floor of his cell, acting out all the parts in his favorite plays, as well as reheisting a few of his memorable jobs. These activities did not cause him too much concern. But did they see him yesterday, when the loneliness overcame him to such a degree that, to help relieve his pain, he conjured up all his friends – Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Jones, June, even Hughes - arranged them in a circle around him, and spoke to each of them – telling each what they meant to him? Thank goodness, he had resorted to his great-grandmother's old Gaelic dialect. Good luck nosy CIA guys understanding that, Neal thought to himself with satisfaction. All they would have seen is a man talking to the air in words they would never be able to translate. The session gave him some small consolation. His good-byes were said.

Neal tried to imagine the reports made about his activities. "Subject has been singing to himself for over an hour. We need a translator in here." How long would it have taken them to figure out he was performing 'Madam Butterfly' in its original Japanese? The thought made Neal giggle and he tried to stifle the urge, aware he was under surveillance. Bad as things were for him now he didn't want anyone coming to the conclusion he was crazy and tossing him in a psychiatric ward. Prison psychiatric wards were the worse. But Neal was exhausted, he had not been able to sleep for more than an hour or two a night since being arrested. He couldn't sleep when he was cold and being in total darkness unnerved him. He had no control over his own existence. Isolation ate into his soul, threatening to overwhelm him mentally and emotionally. The constant stress had more than taken its toll to the point that he now started giggling and was finding it difficult to stop. Think about something else, he ordered himself. But the only thing he could think about was the picture he envisioned in his mind - portly CIA agents peering at a computer monitor trying to figure out whatthehell this guy was up to. The more he tried not to laugh, the more he wanted to laugh and that made him want to laugh more yet. He was going to be rolling around on the floor hysterical soon if he didn't do something quick.

Okay. If he was being watched, he would give them something to watch - on his own terms. Quickly he decided he would provide entertainment for the both of them. Get his mind on something else, quick, quick. But what to do? Casting around in his memory, he tried to think of an appropriate bit of theatre he could present to his captive audience. Something not too complex, not too long, something even a CIA agent could understand. A comedy was just the ticket. The comic opera 'Don Pasquale' by Gaetano Donizetti, one of his favorites, came to mind. He assembled the cast mentally, the props, and arranged the musical pieces. That effort alone took Neal most of the morning and kept him busily occupied and the giggles finally died away.

"What's he doing?" asked one CIA agent to another, a few miles away. The two government agents had been watching closely since the Lompoc prison guards stormed in and took the note away, which was now being examined in their mobile lab. Neal's recent activity seemed more purposed than usual and the one agent called the other in for advice. He was disconcerted to note Neal's laughing jag, he saw it happen before with others and it never ended well. The agent was encouraged when Neal seemed to pull out of it but now his frenzied activity was causing the agent to rethink his earlier optimism. A hysterical prisoner is never easy to interrogate.

The first agent shook his head. He had long experience monitoring prisoners in their cells but this guy took the cake. He was keeping a whole slew of lab technicians busy analyzing his surveillance tapes back in Washington D.C.. They had yet to reach any conclusions.

Neal was so engrossed planning his performance he lost track of time. His breakfast tray, delivered, stayed in the hatch of his door. It took a few hours for him to feel comfortable that he was ready. He found himself eager to begin Act 1, the scene between Don Pasquale and Dr. Malatesta. But just as he was to start it occurred to him that his audience was an unknown entity. Were they familiar with 'Don Pasquale" or indeed operas at all? 'Don Pasquale' was pretty simple but CIA agents being so busy and all - they might not have much time for opera. Neal decided to give a short introduction before he started so there would be no mistaking what he was doing. He thoughtfully laid down on the floor so the camera could see his face and expounded for nearly 15 minutes on Italian operas in general and an opera buffa in particular.

Five miles away, the CIA agents observing looked at each other in utter bewilderment. "Did he say he's going to perform an - opera?" asked one to the other. So not looking good for future intelligence gathering sessions in Albania, both agents thought simultaneously. Obviously Neal now knew he was being observed so for the most part, the value of their surveillance was over. But the entertainment value was just beginning. Sure enough, Neal soon jumped up and launched into song as he dashed around the small cell, playing all the parts, adding pantomime as well. Both agents watched in astonishment, which turned to disbelief, shaking their heads and rubbing their eyes as though they could not believe what their prisoner was doing. But then amazement turned to appreciative laughter and after a few minutes the agents were themselves catching the giggles which soon erupted into genuine laughter and soon one agent actually lost his balance and fell off his chair. After Neal's performance came to an end, it took them several minutes to catch their breath. For the first time since the case began, the CIA agents tasked with watching Neal Caffrey began to have serious doubts about their career choices.

Later that evening, Neal rested on the floor, his back against his cot. His efforts of the day had worn him out. Tired of being under constant surveillance he pulled the woolen blanket from his bed and put it over his head, so the camera could not see his face. He enjoyed performing the opera but the lack of concrete feedback depressed him. He started the opera alone and he ended it alone. No standing ovation. No clapping. Did anyone even notice he missed that note in Act 2? He felt more alone than ever. How much longer could he keep this up? The hunger, the cold, the silence was hard enough to endure. But the deepening loneliness was threatening to batter down his emotional defenses. Four plus years in a maximum security prison was nothing compared to this isolation. He wondered if he could endure even one more day. Where was Peter? Did anyone care about him at all?

Little could Neal imagine that a bribe had been paid, a secret prison was ready, paperwork finished. At the small airport a short five miles away a long-range military jet was being rolled out of a hanger. A pilot was worrying about the short runway here and the shorter one yet in Albania. Military technicians from Vandenberg were just finishing up preparing the jet to conduct a highly dangerous prisoner overseas as soon as the morning fog cleared. The weather report predicted tomorrow would be warm and sunny.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**June missed Neal more than she would share with anyone, even her daughter. She was very lonely long before she met the young con artist at the thrift store and she gradually learned to cope with the emptiness in her life. She volunteered, she welcomed her granddaughters into her home, she got a dog, she met her friends to play bridge but there was a deep ache in her heart that would not lift. The night Byron died the pain overwhelmed her but her friends and family assured her time would heal, eventually she would be herself again. But her friends' predictions failed her. Time did not heal. She was not herself again. It took her over a year to gather up the courage to take a few of Byron's suits to the thrift store down the street. It was a small start, she told herself. But that day she held out no hope the donation would change anything. **

**But there was Neal, almost as if Byron sent someone so like himself to bring her joy - and remind her of the days long ago they shared. Of course, Neal had his own life, and June was careful not to intrude. She counted herself lucky if she saw him once in a few days. He would stop and pass the time with her, always funny, always kind. Occasionally he would take her out to lunch, go with her to a school event for one of her granddaughters, even went with her once to a doctor's appointment when her daughter got hung up in traffic. He listened to her stories, he always laughed at the right moments, he was unfailingly courteous. Then one day, quite by accident, June noticed something odd. The pain of Byron's loss had lifted. She felt a sense of déjà vu - she was herself again. **

**Yes, June missed Neal. But more than that she was scared to death for him. Piecing together what Peter, Elizabeth and Mozzie told her at different times, she had enough information to be truly worried and she could see the strain on their faces as well. She'd been home the day the armed SWAT team - what else could she call it? - came for Neal and that such a thing could happen in present day America astonished her. She could not get out of her mind the confused horror on Neal's face when the armed men finally dragged him out, tightly bound, after ransacking her home. "Call Peter! Call Peter!" Neal yelled to her over and over. She did just that - but Peter Burke did not answer and it was hours before he finally arrived and by then it was too late. Neal was gone. Even Peter did not know who took him or why. It would be weeks before she would know it was the CIA. **

**This morning June woke up to the realization that it was time for her to show her hand even as she realized the personal cost she would pay. There was a secret she had kept from her family, from her friends - even from Byron. She believed she would go to her grave with her secret intact. Yet, it wasn't quite a secret. One other person knew her secret. And that was the person whose phone number she now dialed. **

**Hours later found June being escorted into the ornate offices of a well-known Federal Judge, a judge whose reputation for fidelity to the law and no-nonsense made criminals and attorneys alike shake in their prison sneakers - or handmade leather tooled loafers - whichever the case may be. Her name was spoken in admiration - and fear by all those who presented cases in her courtroom. Disagree with her decisions they might dare, but no one questioned her ethics or wisdom. None or her judgments had ever been overturned. Her record was spotless and the Federal Judge worked hard to keep it that way. If June was nervous that day she tried not to show it as she sat down in the curved wooden chair in front of the judge's oaken desk. The judge, perhaps a decade and a half younger , smiled politely at the older woman. Her own crinkly hair was turning grey and her deeply tanned face was lined, betraying someone who spent too many weekends on the open water sailing her own boat into the sea in search of marlin - very big marlin. The judge still wore her black judges' robes, having just come from a lengthy court case to have a few minutes for a quick lunch and although she was sacrificing her scarce precious moments of rest, there was no sense of impatience about her. **

"**How may I help you?" the judge asked June kindly, peering at the older woman with her own deep brown eyes. The eyes were cautious yet friendly and did not appear to mask any hidden agenda. If the Federal Judge and June met before, she did not betray it by her mannerisms, nor did June who spoke to the judge quietly, with respect, her voice soft and low - but very urgent. Occasionally June would meet the other woman's eyes but she couldn't hold the judge's direct look for more than a few seconds so she would glance down at the notes she had written beforehand. June's memory was not the best and she did not want to forget anything.**

**After June finally stopped speaking, she looked up into the judge's face, trying to read it but found it was impossible. The judge had spent too many years masking her true feelings and wasn't about to reveal them now to this little old lady who was sitting in front of her. **

"**You said you would never ask a favor from me," the judge kindly reminded June. She pushed her chair back from the table and leaned back, looking June over appraisingly. **

"**I know," admitted June, softly, almost with regret. "I truly…never thought I would. But…"**

"**Say no more," the judge answered, coming to a decision. "Years ago I offered you one favor, it still stands. There's no need to explain." **

"**Thank you," June replied simply. "I hope this won't cause trouble for you."**

"**It doesn't matter," answered the judge, with a dismissive wave of her tanned creased hand. "A promise is a promise. Without you…"**

"**Don't!" begged June, cutting her off. "You owe me nothing! Your mother is the one to whom you owe everything. I was just a…14 year old girl." Tears started flowing down the old woman's cheeks and she reached into her purse for a Kleenex. June hadn't expected to be so affected seeing the daughter she gave away so many years ago and who she thought about so often. The daughter who none of her family knew about, the daughter who was a Federal Judge. **

**The younger woman came around the shining desk and leaned over to embrace June, her birth mother, who had by now dissolved in tears. Her own eyes were full as well. The anger she felt toward her June in her youth passed long ago and now she felt nothing but compassion for this sweet woman who gave life to her over five decades ago. The raising of her own children had long since helped to heal this wound. June's request for a favor came at just the right time. She would do her best with it. **

**The judge asked to keep June's notes and after the old woman left her offices, the Federal Judge quickly read through them again. Her own work would have to wait. She told her secretary to get the local FBI offices for her; she wanted to speak to a senior agent…Reece Hughes. The judge was nothing if not thorough and it took nearly an hour to confirm each detail of June's story. The Federal Judge at that point hung up and summoned her secretary in and the law clerk as well, issuing a rapid fire series of orders to them both, the startled young woman and the equally surprised young man. They both quickly realized they were going to be putting in some overtime tonight to get the orders completed in time. And time was of the essence. **

**On the way back down the hall to the courtroom, the Federal Judge smiled to herself with satisfaction. She knew her spotless reputation would ensure her orders would be swiftly obeyed. She was seldom questioned these days. Also, she was oddly aware that a burden seemed to be lifted from her shoulders as well. She felt lighter. All her debts were paid. She wiped away a tear as she opened the door to her courtroom.**

**An hour later a young bike courier appeared in Hughes' office only to be instructed to deliver the thin package to a Peter Burke down the hall. Accustomed to a variety of reactions to his presence, the courier never experienced one quite like this before once after the puzzled agent ripped open the cardboard envelope and read the short document contained therein. The agent yelled an indefinable obscenity and jumped over his desk, scattering its' papers. He stopped briefly to give the courier a tight hug before dashing out his office door. The young courier turned around just in time just to witness the announcement the agent made from the top of the stairs to a startled group of FBI agents below.**

"**Caffrey's coming home!" shouted the middle aged man which elicited an unified gasp and then loud cheering and clapping. Whoever this Caffrey is, he must be a pretty popular fellow, thought the courier to himself. He never saw FBI agents so excited to welcome back one of their own. **

"**Neal's coming home?" asked Elizabeth later while she and Peter cuddled on the sofa. Peter was too excited to eat dinner and had been talking a mile a minute since he ran up the stairs and through the door. It took her fifteen minutes just to get him to sit down.**

"**Well, not home-home," conceded Peter. "I don't know. Probably not. Maybe. I can't really say. But New York for sure. FBI custody for sure. Reece has gone with Jones to pick him up, their plane is in the air now. The CIA is pretty mad. Hughes isn't even answering his phone. I heard this may go as high as the President. But for now, the orders of the Federal Judge are law. The CIA must let him go."**

"**Neal will wonder why you're not there," pointed out Elizabeth gently.**

"**Yeah, well, Hughes will have to explain it to him," said Peter. "He was the one who put me on the "No Fly" list - and now he can't get me off it! Poor Reese, he feels like he has been screwing up lately. I didn't want to make him feel any worse. It's OK. We can go together to meet them when they land?"**

**Elizabeth nodded. She would like that. "Do we know why Neal was arrested in the first place?" asked Elizabeth. "Who framed him?"**

"**We're working on that, El," said Peter. "Hughes has the whole squad on it. We think it was a ploy to get attention off the real terrorist and on to Neal but we still don't know who is behind it."**

"**Mozzie will be pleased that you didn't have to use Neal's Shakespeare autograph caper," remarked Elizabeth, stroking Peter's arm, relieved that his pulse rate was back to normal. **

"**Yeah, isn't that strange?" asked Peter. "I don't get it. A Federal Judge - a highly respected Federal Judge - suddenly orders Neal back to New York and into FBI custody? Why? How did she get involved?"**

"**Perhaps Reece…," began Elizabeth.**

"**No, I asked him," said Peter emphatically. "He never talked to her before she called him. She wouldn't tell him how she got involved. Thank god, she did, though. Jones had news that we were cutting it pretty thin - pretty thin indeed."**

"**What are you talking about?" asked Elizabeth, looking up at her husband.**

"**Jones' cousin thought the CIA was getting ready to take Neal overseas soon, maybe even within the next few days. There were rumors floating around. Apparently Neal's cell was bugged, a spy camera had been installed in his overhead light. Someone, somewhere else, was watching him all the time. Even the guards were finding it creepy and had complained to the warden."**

**Elizabeth shuddered, remembering the dark prison. She even dreamt about it once since coming back from California and cried out until Peter awakened her. She was never able to get back to sleep that night.**

**Shortly after midnight, nearly 3,000 miles away in California, deep in the basement of Lompoc Federal Penitentiary, Neal was startled awake by angry shouting, the sound of metal on metal, and the swirl of thin long lights appearing and disappearing through the hatch of his cell door, and then the light bulb in his cell suddenly came on, illuminating his tiny bunker. His heart started pounding uncontrollably. He always suspected he might be moved in the middle of the night - and now the time had apparently come. His heart sank. Where were they taking him? Would he ever see his friends again? He jumped out of bed and wrapped the woolen blanket around his shoulders tightly in the dampness. He tried to make sense of the shouting he heard but it was a mix of cursing and orders issued between the sound of heavy boots running back and forth and then he heard a voice which made him fear he was hallucinating. Hughes?**

**Neal heard click, click, clicky, click - and the door to his cell swung open revealing a mass of uniforms of various colors, men in suits shouting at each other, even a Hispanic man dressed in pajamas and blue bathrobe with fuzzy black slippers on his feet looking dazed at the commotion. Neal recognized him as the warden and the disheveled man was shouting into a cell phone, trying to communicate something to someone while waving his free hand, which held a piece of paper, around in huge circles. Neal shrank back against the wall, crouching down into a tight ball in a corner of his cell trying to make himself as small as possible and he put his arms over his head to fend off any blows that might be coming his way. **

"**Get up, Caffrey," an exasperated voice sounding exactly like Hughes, ordered him. Neal peered up to see where the voice was coming from and to his shock he actually saw Hughes standing over him wearing his usual impatient expression. Neal slowly got up, his hands braced on the wall behind him. Hughes, here? Looking over Hughes' shoulder, Neal spotted Jones as well…Clinton Jones…deep in conversation with Lester Jones, his guard of the past month. Was Peter here too? **

"**I am taking you back to New York - that OK with you?" asked Hughes gruffly but his eyes betrayed a kindness that Neal had not seen before. Neal nodded. He had no problem with New York. None at all. The voices were still shouting and men were still shoving but the noise level was beginning to die down gradually.**

"**This case isn't closed!" growled someone nearby angrily. "You haven't heard the last from us, Hughes. We'll go to the President if we have to."**

"**Enjoy your freedom, traitor," someone else said sarcastically. "You'll be back with us soon enough. This is just temporary," and the big guy actually gave Neal a sharp shove which caught him off balance and he fell back against the concrete cell wall. **

**Hughes turned angrily to the red-faced man and ordered, "Leave him alone! He's in our custody now. Get out of here! Now!" Clinton Jones moved in closer and turned to face the crowd, providing a protective shield for Hughes and Neal. Just then through the crowd a middle-aged, rather rotund man determinedly pushed his way past the guards, past the CIA agents, and then tried to go around Jones to Neal but Jones would have none of it and stopped him with an outstretched hand. Looking up at Jones through thick round glasses the man, dressed in slacks, rumpled white shirt and tie, realized he was going no further and motioned for Jones to put his head down as he wanted to tell him something. **

**Even in the commotion going on around them, Jones heard plainly, "Tell Caffrey we really enjoyed his opera."**

"**What?" asked Jones. Not able to make sense of what the man said. The man smiled and only added, "Just tell him. He'll understand." With that he turned his ample body around in the pushing crowd, and began elbowing his way out of the cell. Jones looked after him, shaking his head. Who was that? The FBI agent had not seen a badge identifying the odd man as affiliated with any organization. Opera? Did he say opera? Jones put it from his mind and looked over at his cousin Lester who seemed to be contemplating jumping in to provide backup. There were still curses shouted, grumbling and raised voices but gradually the worse was dying down. A correctional officer appeared with several pairs of leg irons but Hughes waved him away. "We don't need those," he said. The guard opened his mouth to protest. "I am in charge here. I take responsibility for Neal Caffrey. We're only using handcuffs. That's it." And with that Hughes pulled a pair of FBI handcuffs from his pocket and motioned Neal to hold out his wrists which he quickly did and Hughes snapped the cuffs on him. **

"**You cannot move a prisoner without leg irons and a waist chain," protested the warden, trying to shove his way through the crowd in the small cell. His thick black hair was in disarray and he looked as though he had been roused from a heavy sleep.**

"**This man is in custody of the FBI and we can do anything we want," announced Hughes blithely. "Now how do we get out of this hellhole?" The warden's face blanched at Hughes' remark. "Yes, hellhole," repeated Hughes, angrily. "This is no way to treat a human being. You're not going to have your job much longer, so enjoy it while you can," Hughes baited him with satisfaction. The warden backed off nervously. It was an empty threat at the moment but Hughes was beginning to think Caffrey had friends in very high places and it actually might be accomplished. **

"**It wasn't my fault," the warden insisted. "The CIA…" but Hughes was no longer listening and turned away. **

"**I'll show you to the elevator, sir," Lester Jones said, stepping forward. "It's easy to get turned around down here," he added. He gave Neal a nervous glance. He wished he could have done more for him the last few weeks but at least he hoped his reports to his cousin Clinton helped. Watching all this unfold before him, Lester found himself wondering if being a correctional officer was really how he wanted to spend his life.**

**It took nearly ten minutes to wind their way through the maze of hallways and cell blocks before they at last exited the prison buildings into the cold wet night air. Dense fog swirled all around the huge fortress to the point that the guard towers were hardly visible, even their strong lights could not break through the foggy barrier. Neal was trembling uncontrollably from the mix of nerves and cold. Jones pulled his jacket off and draped it over Neal's shoulders "We'll be in the car soon," Jones said to Neal, with a pat on his back. "Hold on." **

**The words were hardly out of Jones' mouth before headlights appeared out of the grey curtain and Jones ran over to open the door of the rented limousine. Jones reached up to protect Neal's head as he bent to step into the large interior of the car. Jones got in next and sat opposite Neal and finally Hughes stepped in after speaking a few words to the driver. He sat next to Neal. The driver closed the door and then ran around and got behind the steering wheel. The car's headlights did little good in the pea soup fog but the uniformed driver nevertheless expertly backed out the wide drive-way and in a few minutes passed through the gates of Lompoc Federal Penitentiary and then reaching Central Avenue, turned the car left.**

"**Plans have changed," announced Hughes to Neal and Jones. "I don't want to wait around for this fog to lift before we can take off from the airport. I told the driver to take us to LAX, we'll probably be down there before we could get there by plane anyhow," Jones nodded his head in agreement. He wasn't a man of many words but he could feel his heart still pounding in his chest. The sooner they got Neal away from Lompoc, the better. Those CIA guys were a pretty scary bunch, to say nothing of the correctional officers. How do they grow them so tall in California, anyway? Looking out the car window he could see virtually nothing. Auto body shops must do a thriving business here, Jones thought to himself. How did drivers avoid colliding into each other on a regular basis? **

**Hughes turned to look at Neal. It distressed him to see how thin the young man was and how pallid his face under his short beard. He didn't want to think about his own part in all this. **

"**Caffrey," Hughes began, drawing the young man's attention to him. Neal followed Hughes' voice and turned to look at him, his expression dazed, almost blank. "Do you promise not to escape?"**

**Neal seemed to ponder the question for a moment, then nodded, "Of course," he said through chapped dry lips. His first words of the night, actually. Hughes motioned for Neal to hold out his arms and Hughes removed the handcuffs and put them in his jacket pocket. Neal rubbed his wrists. Hughes noticed red marks which couldn't have been caused by the short time he had been in handcuffs this night and resolved to ask him later about it. Jones pulled something out of his pants pocket and leaned over. Gently he placed a tracking anklet around Neal's left ankle and clicked it shut. He straightened up and gave Neal a sheepish grin as he shrugged his shoulders. 'Candy' was back and Neal smiled his first faint smile of the evening as he realized the tracking anklet was oddly the first sign of normalcy returning to his life. Hughes pulled his cell phone out and punched a number. It was nearly 4 a.m. in New York but Peter insisted Hughes call him as soon as Neal was fully in their custody. **

"**We have him," stated Hughes succulently into the phone. "It was quite a circus but the judge's papers carried it. But not before the CIA woke her up - did they get an earful! Jones and I could hear her across the room. Do you want to talk to him?" Hughes held out the phone to Neal who looked at it blankly, as though not recognizing its' purpose. "Peter wants to talk to you," Hughes prompted gently. **

**Neal reached out and took the phone, putting it to his ear. "Peter?" he said, his voice hoarse. As he listened to Peter, Jones and Hughes exchanged concerned glances. And then after a few moments…"No problem. I understand. I am fine, Peter. Thank you. Tell Mozzie, June - tell them, I am fine. See you soon," and with that he handed the phone back to Hughes. Hughes was glad to see color returning to Neal's white face and his muscles relaxing now that that his trembling had subsided. "Are you hungry?" Hughes asked, opening the small refrigerator fully stocked with water, sodas, sandwiches and snacks. Neal nodded, his eyes brightening at sight of all the food available at his fingertips. He reached for a turkey sandwich wrapped in cellophane. **

"**Eat slowly," advised Hughes. "You don't want to get sick. We have about three hours before we get to LAX so maybe you can get some sleep too. Maybe we all could." Privately, Hughes wondered if his time table was correct. The fog was still so thick the driver was barely going 40 miles per hour. He hoped they wouldn't miss the plane and have to go though all the rigmarole with another airlines. Getting a prisoner on to a plane these days was not easy and having completed the paperwork for this flight, he desperately wanted to be on it. They'd taken longer at the prison that he had hoped. Darn CIA anyway. And why did that numbskull warden live so far from the penitentiary? It took him at least a half hour to show up and the guy didn't even take time to dress properly. Would this damn fog be with them all the way down the coast? Hughes leaned back in the cushy seat, his mind jumping ahead a few hours. Neal would have to get dressed in the civilian clothes they brought along before they reached the airport. And he would have to be cuffed again. Hughes knew he could not escort a prisoner across state lines without him being cuffed at the very least. The thought saddened him nonetheless. Neal looked so fragile, Hughes hoped he was made of stronger stuff than was evident to his naked eye.**

**Hours later in New York, Peter and Elizabeth were at JFK waiting at the gate for the passengers to disembark from the nonstop Los Angeles flight which touched down a scarce quarter hour ago. Peter was trying to hold his emotions in check, to be just another FBI agent picking up just another prisoner at the airport. Elizabeth, however, was under no such constraints and excitement was evident on her pretty round face. She was holding a bunch of colorful balloons she purchased at one of the kiosks to Peter's dismay. Peter begged her not to buy them and now standing next to her, he kept scanning the airport nervously, hoping not to see any media clued in to the unusual suspect having just arrived. He could visualize the headlines now. "FBI welcomes CIA terrorist suspect with festive balloons. News at 11."**

**While it was a relief not to see any media here for Neal's return, Peter was exasperated to catch sight of two CIA agents lurking by the Starbucks tables, coffee cups in hand. Their Hawaiian shirts were a pitiful attempt at a disguise to say nothing of the ridiculous straw hats on their heads. Peter would have laughed had he not been so disgusted. Would the CIA never give up? He had a good mind to…but no, he told himself. Stay cool. He'd spent a lifetime learning to keep his temper in check and now was not the time to lose it. He turned his back to them. He wished Mozzie was here as well but fearing contact with the CIA, no matter how remote, he declined Peter's invitation to join them. June wasn't here either; Peter and Elizabeth offered to pick her up on their way to the airport but she begged off, saying she had a luncheon appointment. Peter was a little surprised - maybe Neal didn't mean as much to her as he'd thought. **

**At long last all the passengers walked past them and were off the plane and then after a few minutes, Peter spied Jones first walking down the ramp and then Hughes and finally Neal who was dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, his wrists cuffed in front of him. Nonetheless, Neal's bearded face lighted up with a smile when he saw them. Elizabeth ran to greet him, balloons in tow. She wrapped her arms around him tightly in a big hug and started asking him quick questions. Was he alright? Was he hungry? How was the flight? Gosh, he looked so handsome with a beard. **

**Finally the small group reached Peter who was feeling more than awkward at this juncture. "Hi, Neal", the agent said with a wry smile. He glanced up at the balloons with a shrug of his shoulders, trying to communicate "I had nothing to do with those". **

"**Hi, Peter," Neal replied, smiling broadly. The beard and strain on his face made him look older but there was no denying his pleased grin. Neal was probably the happiest prisoner ever to arrive at JFK thought Peter to himself. And so he should be. It was quite a feat to pry a terrorist suspect from the grip of the CIA. Whoever managed it had Peter's undying gratitude. **

**The small group stood around awkwardly for a moment. What now? **

"**Rikers is full," said Peter, turning to Hughes. "I checked on the way here. Umm….what are we going to do with…Neal, now? He needs to be some place safe for the time being until this blows over. The CIA has been busy filing briefs all morning with the district court. We've got our attorneys on it, but …" Burke tilted his head in the direction of the CIA agents observing them. **

**Hughes and Jones turned to look in the direction Burke indicated and Neal turned his head as well. His smile faded with the realization that he was still in custody, still a prisoner, still under observation by the CIA. There was still a another cell to come, more bars, more locks. It wasn't over. His body drooped. **

"**House arrest is fine with me," Hughes announced, unexpectedly. "Caffrey has given me his word he won't escape. But he needs to be with someone at all times, even with the anklet." The older man looked around at his agents, waiting for someone to say something. **

"**We have a house," Burke said, stating the obvious. "Neal can stay with us. Right, El?" He turned to his wife who nodded eagerly. She could easily do her event planning from home. **

"**An AGENT needs to be with him at all times," cautioned Hughes, glancing over at Jones. **

"**Burke and I can manage it, sir," Jones said. He liked the Burkes' cute little house and it would be no hardship for him to spend time there with Neal. "Other agents call fill in if we need them," he added. Elizabeth's culinary skills were legend at FBI headquarters and to turn down an opportunity to sample her cooking would be unthinkable. **

"**Good, it's settled then?" confirmed Burke. He reached out his left hand to Hughes, palm up. The older agent hesitated for a second and then handed over the key to the handcuffs. "He's all your's now, Burke. Don't lose him!" and with that the old man turned away and began walking down the concourse. **

**Peter quickly turned to Neal and motioned for him to hold his wrists up, which he did and Peter removed the handcuffs, dropping them into his pocket. As always, Neal rubbed his reddened wrists. He opened his mouth to speak when he heard a sharp noise behind him and turned in time to see the two CIA agents in Hawaiian shirts approaching quickly, their straw hats flying off their heads. Next to him, Jones had already started toward the agents while Peter rushed past him as well, issuing stern commands to stay back - laced with a good profanity or two for emphasis. Next Elizabeth went running after them, ordering everyone to stop, people were watching, people with video cameras. Stop before they all ended up on the evening news. **

**Neal stood there for a moment, a look of disbelief on his face. The CIA and FBI, in their haste to tangle with one another, left the subject of their dispute all alone and unshackled. But that realization did not occur to any of the four men as they shouted at one another, argued and then started pushing. Elizabeth looked on, her hands over her ears, pleading in vain for them to stop.**

**Meanwhile Neal glanced over at the line of plastic chairs. Should he sit down? This looked like it might take awhile. Neal looked down the concourse. Should he escape? He might never have another opportunity. Darn, why did Hughes ask for his word anyway? That Hughes believed it actually meant something was more of a restraint than handcuffs could ever be. Oh yes, the old man was crafty, acknowledged Neal to himself with admiration, realizing the con that had been played on him - so successfully he was actually still standing as though rooted to the floor when every fiber in his body was screaming - run! Neal gave another appraising glance at the bickering agents. Several Airport Security men had now joined the fray and the jumbled voices escalated in volume drawing the attention of other travelers, some of whom stopped to watch the unexpected entertainment, camera phones at the ready. Neal studied the row of chairs again and then he looked longingly down the concourse once more. Finally coming to a decision, the young con artist, one of the world's best, glanced anxiously behind him yet a third time, then slowly began inching toward the…**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Chairs. Where have all the chairs gone, Elizabeth wondered to herself, looking around her chairless living room. With so many people in her house all the time now, things were bound to be misplaced but why was it always the chairs that were lost? She shook her head. She knew she would eventually find them; she couldn't imagine any of the young FBI agents now inhabiting her house, to keep watch on Neal, would actually make off with one of her chairs. They did turn up in the oddest places, though. She actually found a chair in the hallway closet. Another outside under a rain gutter. A third on the small grassy area in their backyard. "I wanted to sit in the sun," Neal explained so plaintively, Elizabeth didn't have the heart to scold him and he smilingly retrieved it.

Neal didn't tell Elizabeth that he found it a pathetic state of affairs that his con artistry had deteriorated to the point he could not even pilfer a chair without getting caught. What was happening to him, he wondered anxiously, not for the first time since arriving back in New York. He could barely sleep at all in the Burke's spare room, the bed was so soft he tossed and turned the first night until finally giving up. He got out of the bed pulling the quilt off as well, wrapped it around his body and stretched out on the floor near the small cold fireplace where he fell into a fitful dream, waking up an hour later bathed in sweat, imagining he was back in the basement cell in Lompoc. He didn't tell anyone and made sure the bed looked as though it was slept in even as he remade it, to save Elizabeth the work. But next night the same thing happened. Would he ever sleep again, Neal wondered to himself as he spread the quilt over the bed as Elizabeth taught him.

Although the first few days saw his friends trying to help Neal recuperate from his ordeal, he himself felt in a state of suspended animation. Those weeks of solitude had forced open a Pandora box of truths Neal spent his life carefully locking away. Neal was finding it much harder to get the truths stuffed back into the box the second time around. Unbeknownst, ominous clouds of a deep depression were beginning to settle onto his mind. Until he knew the "why" of his ordeal, nothing was going to make sense in his life. Outwardly, though, he tried hard to be the same Neal Caffrey as before "the event" - as it was now referred to - and thanks to his natural gift for 'social engineering', he was pulling it off, more or less. There was nothing Elizabeth would not do for him and Peter too was more than willing to run an errand if Neal expressed even a half-hearted desire for anything. Neal would catch the looks of concern Peter and Elizabeth exchanged and try to reassure them that he was fine, just fine. Neither Peter nor Elizabeth bought it and Peter continued to ask if he wanted to see "someone", - "you know, just to talk?".

Then for a few days Neal began to feel a bit like his old self until Jones happened to share one evening over dinner that his cousin Lester was visiting from California and could he bring him by?

"No!" yelled Neal, aghast, jumping up from his chair. "Absolutely not!" his voice uncharacteristically sharp. His handsome face screwed up in pain and his blue eyes darkened quickly as they darted around the small room as though looking for an avenue of escape and it took several minutes for Peter and Elizabeth to calm him enough to sit down again but he pushed his plate away. Elizabeth shot an exasperated look at Jones who shrugged his shoulders in regret. She'd been trying so hard to get Neal to eat and now all her efforts flew out the window. "I am sorry," mouthed Jones to her silently, glancing over at Neal who by now had dropped his head on his folded hands, elbows on the white linen tablecloth, the muscles in his arms trembling slightly. Just as Peter opened his mouth to ask Neal, yet again, if he wanted to see someone, Elizabeth shook her head 'no' at him. She gently patted Neal's back and gave him a quick hug before going into the kitchen to make their evening cups of hot cocoa.

After the kitchen door closed behind Elizabeth, Neal turned to Peter. "Please let me go home," he begged, not for the first time. "I am grateful for all you and Elizabeth have done for me. But I just want to go home. I want my life back. Please." And at that moment Peter was suddenly reminded of another time he heard a similar plea from Neal, over a year ago, when he asked to see him after his escape from the maximum security prison. Peter knew he could not be moved this time. Neal's future - perhaps his life - depended on it.

It hurt Peter to hear the supplication in Neal's voice and to have to deny him. Peter got up and stepped over to Neal and put his hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry," the older man said, "It's just too dangerous. The judge's order for your release to the FBI is still being challenged; the decision has not come down yet. It should be soon. Hopefully, this will be over soon." The agent didn't know what else to say. He could feel Neal's trembling under his hand and wondered, not for the first time, if he should force the issue about the doctor. Elizabeth, with her womanly wisdom, said 'no', Neal would know if he needed to see anyone. Fortunately, Peter knew Neal only had to hang on for a few days more. But Peter could not tell him that at this moment and so he just patted him on the shoulder and then went over to his chair and sat down at the small table again. A hint of anger on his face, Neal stood up, his chair scraping a bit too loudly on the floor, and ran up the stairs. Jones waited a moment before following.

Days later, Hughes invited himself over for dinner and Peter and Jones exchanged knowing glances. Neal sensed something was up. There was an excitement in the air, the atmosphere in the house was turning festive - Neal could feel it in his bones. His mood likewise brightened. What was going on? Was the case solved? Was he going to be freed to go home? Perhaps a Life is Back to Normal Party? Neal tried not to hope too much but what else could it be? The gourmet dishes Elizabeth had spent the day preparing in the kitchen were definitely not the normal fare but whenever he asked her what was going on, she would just smile and give him another task to do such as grating cheese or peeling potatoes. Finally he learned to stop asking and made his escape to the living room as soon as he could.

Just as the Burke's grandfather clock struck 6:00 p.m., Neal's wonderment increased immeasurably when Peter brought a pair of scissors back from the kitchen and motioned for Neal to put his foot up on the ottoman by the TV at which time Burke snipped off the tracking anklet, then stuffed it in his coat pocket. Neal looked up at him in amazement. This was more than he had dared hope for. He started to speak but Peter put a finger to his lips and shook his head silently, glancing around the room at the other visitors, Mozzie, June, and Jones. Everyone was smiling at him with the exact same delighted grin. Whatever was going on, they were all in on it.

A knock-knock on the door at the apparent appointed time and Peter hurried to open it, revealing Hughes standing under the hallway light, his thin white hair shining brightly. He glanced over at Neal, sitting on the sofa, with one of his appraising looks. But his manner, always a bit dismissive of Neal, was slightly off. He moved away from the open doorway to make way for another person - a young man with thick wavy dark hair, very blue eyes peering out through tortoiseshell glasses, a day's worth of stubby beard, and dressed in an old-fashioned brown double-breasted coat much too heavy for this time of year in New York. The visitor looked around the small living room awkwardly, a shy smile on his attractive face. Neal glanced over at the guest, puzzled Hughes brought a stranger along. Then he noticed all eyes on him and looked back at the guest more closely. Goodness - this man looked so much like his father, and then it hit him. Colin! Everyone - everything - was forgotten in that moment of recognition. Neal leapt up from the sofa and ran the few feet to his brother and flung his arms around him, nearly knocking the young man into the hat rack by the door. Neal and Colin embraced for the first time in 20 years. For the second time in a month, Neal sobbed uncontrollably, his tears mingling with his brother's, tension easing from his thin body. There was not a dry eye in the house.

After that, total chaos. Colin was introduced around to everyone, who all talked at once, praising Neal up and down. Neal could scarcely believe they were talking about him but Colin's face beamed with pride. Neal, who kept away all the past years for fear of bringing shame to his family, found himself the center of attention until he turned scarlet with embarrassment. After a few moments, Hughes pulled him aside into the hallway.

"Your brother knows nothing about your past, so keep quiet about it," ordered Hughes. "He thinks you work for the FBI, on top secret missions, so that's what you'll tell him, too. Get it?"

Neal nodded, grateful but bewildered. "But why?" he asked. "I don't understand."

Hughes hesitated. "It was my fault you went through that - in California. And it still isn't straightened out yet, although we're getting closer. I should never have listened to the CIA when they came to me with that information. I want to make it right."

If Neal was embarrassed before, he wanted to crawl under the rug now. His wondered if his face was as red as it felt and quickly turned away to gaze at the grandfather clock ticking away in the hall. "We all make mistakes, sir," Neal said simply.

Hughes looked at him skeptically for a moment but before he could respond, Elizabeth appeared at his side to pull Neal back to the party - and his brother. Mozzie acquired a digital camera from somewhere and was busy snapping photos and trying to herd them all together for a group picture. June's happy smile made her appear ten years younger as she gazed around the room. No one, not even Hughes, knew the sacrifice June made - and no one would. As far as all were concerned, a well-respected Federal Judge happened upon an injustice in the nick of time and strove to right it.

Gazing over at his brother and his friends, Neal felt like the luckiest man in the world.

For the next three days Neal's friends conspired together to ensure Colin had a normal visit with his little brother in America. It was soon apparent everyone had gotten together ahead of time to sync up their stories, almost like preparing for an elaborate con, which - in a way - this was. Neal was staying at Peter's because June's house, where he rented an apartment, was being fumigated for termites (actually, it needed to be done anyway), Hughes gave Neal permission for a few days off from his Secret Assignment to visit with his brother, and if Colin thought it was a bit strange they were never left alone, he was too polite to mention it. Perhaps this constant togetherness was American custom?

Before he arrived it had been decided Colin would stay with Jones who had an extra room. Colin was delighted; he liked Jones right away when the agent picked him up at the airport, his first African American friend. Jones too was eager to get to know Neal's brother; he wondered if they were much alike. Unfortunately Jones had not counted on Colin's deep Irish brogue and it was a full day before he could understand much of what Colin said and he found himself doing a lot of nodding accompanied by - what he hoped - were appropriate replies. Jones soon found the brothers were at different stages of their lives though close in age. Colin carried himself as one who had found his bliss while no one doubted Neal was still searching for his. Hughes gave Jones time off to escort Neal and Colin around New York to see the sights and the three found themselves having a great time playing tourists to such a degree Jones felt like he too was on vacation and saw his native city through fresh eyes.

It was only when they passed the stunning New York Metropolitan Opera House that Jones flashbacked to the night he and Hughes flew out to California to rescue Neal from the CIA - the rotund little man who pushed his way into Neal's cell to deliver a message. The young detective forgot all about passing the man's cryptic message on to Neal. He waited until Colin wandered off to buy some postcards then he turned to Neal and repeated what the man said that night during the rescue. Jones half thought Neal would not understand the message any better than he did and was very surprised at Neal's look of immediate recognition.

"Really? He said that?" asked Neal, clearly pleased. "I would love to see that tape," he added thoughtfully, although his cheeks blushed red and a tear came to his eye. Not for the first time, Jones was reminded that Caffrey was one of the most resilient people he ever met. Unfortunately Colin returned before Jones could get the whole story but he resolved to ask Neal about it at the first opportunity. And maybe he should look up his old friend Dave at the CIA…

The days flew by too quickly and soon it was time for Colin to return to Ireland. Neal gave him one of his suitcases in which to pack all the small gifts the teacher had bought for his students. Mozzie had photos printed out and quietly stuffed a thick picture album into the suitcase for Colin to take home. Elizabeth baked cookies for the return trip. And Peter took Colin on a tour of the White Collar FBI offices where everyone shook his hand and complimented him on having such an amazing brother and didn't they look so much alike? June slipped Colin a few of Byron's favorite CDs to share with his students at home, mostly jazz from the time when jazz was pure and undiluted. Jones' parting gift to Colin was driving him and Neal to the airport.

After the hugs were hugged and the good-byes waved and Colin's plane disappeared into the clear skies over New York City, Neal and Jones looked at each other in commiseration - they both felt an acute loss.

"I really like your brother," Jones told Neal, who nodded proudly. He always looked up to Colin as the perfect brother and nothing over the three days changed that. Colin invited him to visit as he was eager for his daughters to meet their uncle. Neal happily accepted the invitation but wondered privately how that was going to work out. Ireland was a long way past his 2-mile zone. If he ever had a 2-mile zone again, he thought wistfully.

"Sorry," Jones said, uneasily. Neal glanced over to see what Jones was apologizing for and saw the anklet in his hand.

"Right," Neal said as his reality returned with a thud. He lifted his left leg and placed his foot on one of the plastic chairs. Jones bent over and clicked the anklet into place. If anyone passing by noticed one man locking a tracking device onto another, no one paused to ask questions. After all, this was New York.

Fortunately, Neal did not have long to wonder if life would return to his new normal.

The next day saw Hughes summoning Peter Burke into his office after lunch. Not having a brother, nor indeed a sister either, Hughes never understood the attachment people placed on siblings but he knew enough to tread light where they were concerned. From others he noted neither years nor conflicts usually lessened the deep emotional attachments and so when he called Burke into his office, he did so resolving to be as sensitive as possible.

"How do you want this?" Hughes asked politely. Okay, sensitiveness was not his strong point.

"Want what?" asked Burke, naturally.

"The CIA called me this morning. They've finally gotten to the source of the tip they received about Caffrey and it looks like they have it unraveled pretty well. They dropped their charges against Caffrey as of noon today and he'll be receiving a letter of apology. If he wants to sue, he'll have to hire his own counsel - he can't be using the FBI's; it's a conflict of interest. Got it?"

"Okay," said Burke. "You know what happened?"

Here came the tricky part, reminded Hughes to himself. "When the charges were dropped against Caffrey, new charges were filed against your brother, Philip Buchanan. He will probably be arraigned tomorrow. You can go to it if you want. No one would think the less of you. He is your brother."

"Philip?" questioned Peter, confused. "What has my brother to do with this?"

"It starts with lying to the CIA, and goes on from there," Hughes explained. "By coincidence one of Caffrey's old cell mates got transferred to Sing Sing and Philip happened to run into him and they soon discovered they had something - someone - in common. The cellmate knew quite a bit about Caffrey and Philip noticed the similarity of names between Caffrey's brother and a terrorist he had heard about on the evening news - Khalin Omarah. One idea led to the next and your brother concocted the whole story, reporting his 'suspicions' to the CIA. He got in touch with an old friend who was on the outside, a tech guy who was able to rig Caffrey's phone call to his brother up in such a way to make it appear like it was going to Pakistan, where Omarah was thought to be, to his very town." Hughes paused. It was small wonder he did not trust technology.

"The whole Gaelic thing just added fuel to the fire, unfortunately the translator was rusty on his Irish and just made it worse. What Philip hadn't counted on, or at least we don't know if he was aware, was that the tech guy was part of a terrorist cell and actual plots were underway. Everyone was using everyone else. A couple of guards at Sing Sing were in on it as well. They would use the superintendent's office when he wasn't there. The CIA told me there will be more arrests. It might end on up the news. I'd advise Caffrey not to talk to any reporters if they show up."

"Philip did this?" asked Peter, beyond bewildered. "Why? Was there any money in it?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself," advised Hughes. He certainly didn't want to get between brothers, twins yet.

Peter was stunned. He didn't speak for a moment, trying to take it all in. His own brother wrecked this havoc in Neal's life, nearly getting him killed? Peter and Elizabeth had been nothing but kind to Philip; he himself almost lost his career because of his twin - and this is how he is repaid? Peter quickly put it away to think about later. Although at the moment he could not imagine a time when he would want to think about it at all.

"Where does that leave Neal?" asked Peter.

"Free," said Hughes. "Well, as free as he ever was. He's got three years left on his sentence, he still wears the tracking anklet. Other than that things are back to normal. If he wants that. Otherwise, I can arrange for him to go to a minimum security facility somewhere, he could go on a work release program in another state. If he has any hard feelings against…the FBI, well, I totally understand. He doesn't have to come back if he doesn't want to. He's been through a lot. I put him through a lot."

"But it wasn't you…"

"I should have questioned the CIA's accusations more," stated Hughes. "I didn't have to hand him over so readily. I don't know what's wrong with me. I've lost my edge," the old man said, regretfully.

"Neal holds no grudges," Peter assured his boss. "You brought Colin over from Ireland…"

"Yes, well, never mind about that," Hughes protested. "For now, go home and tell him he's free to go back to June's - and to figure out what he wants."

Burke got up to leave. He turned back to thank Hughes but the old man had already picked up his phone and was issuing orders to his secretary.

It took Burke an hour to explain it all to Neal when he got home with Elizabeth and Jones looking on, asking their own questions. Peter did not spare his own brother's part in it although he could offer no explanation. But he apologized as profusely as he could to Neal who brushed his words away as though they were annoying mosquitoes. He was interested in only one thing.

"I am free to go?" asked Neal, cautiously. "It's over?"

"As far as you're concerned," said Peter. "Hughes said if you want to sue the CIA, and no one would blame you, you'll need to find your own counsel. I can help with that later - if you like. If you want to stay, Hughes might give you some time off…"

"No more time off!" begged Neal. "I've had waaay too much time on my hands this past month. Are there any cases to work on? Anything? I don't care.

"Monday, Neal. 9:00 a.m. sharp, OK?"

"9:00 a.m., I'll be there," promised Neal. "Now don't take this the wrong way, guys - but good-bye!" He jumped up, leaned over to give Elizabeth a quick kiss on the cheek and with that he ran to the door, grabbed his jacket from the hook on the wall, and dashed outside and down the stairs. Alone.

Jones got up as well and turned to Elizabeth. "I want to thank you for all the wonderful meals. But don't take it personally if I decline any dinner invitations for the next few months. I have about 10 pounds to lose before I see you again!" Elizabeth smiled and blew a kiss to the young agent as he walked out their front door as well leaving Peter and his wife alone together.

"What are you going to do about Philip, honey?" asked Elizabeth, patting her husband's knee.

"Do?" asked Peter. "Nothing. He's on his own. This had nothing to do with Neal - it was all about his anger toward me. It was bad enough when he threatened my career. But his lie could easily have caused Neal's - death and it wouldn't have been a pleasant one either. I don't have a brother any longer."

"Honey," objected Elizabeth, reaching out for her husband's hand.

"No, El!" Peter said sharply in a tone he rarely used with his wife. "We're not discussing it. Don't bring it up again."

"Okay," Elizabeth answered, pulling back her hand, her face flushing pink.

Mozzie's few possessions were packed by time Neal arrived at June's. Peter called him earlier from the car on the way home to let him know Neal would be returning soon and a few of the details. Unfortunately June was out when Neal arrived at his apartment and after looking for her, he took the ornate stairs two at a time. Throwing open his apartment door, his eyes took in his small room. He could not remember when any sight brought such joy to his heart.

It took Neal a moment to speak and there were tears in his eyes when he finally turned to Mozzie. "Thank you," he said, "for keeping it just the same."

Mozzie shrugged. He had a hard time expressing his feelings and he was feeling more emotion than he knew what to do with.

"It's all your's," Mozzie said. "June told me she'll be back this evening. Feel free to raid her refrigerator if you like. There's not much food up here."

Mozzie turned to go, he knew Neal was eager to be alone after so many weeks of constant companionship, not to mention the ordeal of what had gone before.

"Wait, Moz," Neal said, turning to his friend. "I still have one question. When I was in prison, someone smuggled in a note to me. It was only an "X" typed onto a small piece of paper sandwiched between some cookies. Do you know anything about that?"

Mozzie looked down in embarrassment. "Clinton told me we could probably get a message to you through his cousin, Lester," he explained. "But we didn't want to send a message that a guard could figure out. Jones just wanted something that would let you know help was on the way. So I suggested just using the X by itself, the way Kate has done. 'The classics' - you know?"

"Oh!" exclaimed, Neal, finally getting it. Then he laughed. "You can't imagine the hours I spent trying to figure that out."

"I am sorry - I…"

"No! It was great. The time I spent on that, my mind wasn't thinking about other - things. Thanks, Mozzie." Neal really meant it too.

Mozzie waved his good-bye and closed the door behind him, leaving Neal alone in his apartment. Sun shone through the windows, the house was totally quiet. Neal collapsed on his freshly made bed and was asleep in seconds, blissfully unaware there was still one chapter to be lived before this saga ended. His feet dangled over the edge of the bed, the green light on his tracking anklet shining brightly in the darkening room.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Many people would say that the secret to a long and happy marriage was total honesty but Elizabeth Burke knew that was not true. Even so she was more than apprehensive as she waited in the visiting room at Sing Sing prison on that Thursday afternoon. She tried not to think what her husband's reaction would be if he knew his wife was in yet another prison visiting yet another prisoner - this time, his brother Philip, whose betrayal nearly caused Neal Caffrey's torture and death. Peter disowned his brother immediately after learning of this final betrayal; it cut so deep that he would not allow Philip's named to be spoken in his presence. And he specifically forbade Elizabeth to contact Philip in any way and yet here she was waiting for the guard to bring her brother-in-law to the cramped smelly visitor's room. If Elizabeth had anything to do with it, Peter would never find out. No, the secret to a long and happy marriage was not total honesty, she thought to herself. Occasionally a good marriage required a little deceit for its' greater good. In this case, the greater good was her husband's love for his twin brother, a love she knew would never die, no matter what the recalcitrant Philip did. She needed to find out if Philip was indeed beyond redemption before she could obey her husband's command. She had to give him one last chance.

Philip's betrayal had stung the bewildered Peter mortally and it seemed like the fallout was now dooming his relationship with Neal as well. Peter felt so acutely embarrassed by the whole fiasco that he could hardly stand to look Neal in the face. Neal, who did not evidence any anger over the misery and suffering he had been subjected to by Philip's lies to the CIA, grew irritated indeed after a few days with this "new" Peter. Their camaraderie was gone, their give-and-take, the intuitiveness between them, the humor they shared. Gone. Neal was left with a humorless shell who looked very similar to Peter but was nothing like him.

On the third day of working on their new case, around noon, Neal went up to Peter's office and sat down a chair in front of his desk. Peter glanced up from his computer screen, his brow wrinkled into an irritated puzzled frown. He didn't have long to wait to find out what Neal wanted.

"What have you done with him?" asked Neal, coming to the point quickly. He looked around Peter's office as though expecting to see "him" hiding behind the door or perhaps under Peter's desk.

"Who 'him'"? asked Peter, with annoyance. He had given Neal an assignment to get him out of the office, yet here he was back a half hour later. The pleasure he used to feel in talking to Neal was gone. Didn't he send him off with Jones? Where was Jones, anyway?

"Peter. What have you done with Peter?"

"Listen here," started Peter, sitting back in his chair. He was in no mood for inane conversation.

"No, you listen," countered Neal. "Either we get this worked out or just send me back to prison now. It would be more enjoyable there than working with you."

"You don't understand…" said Peter. He really didn't want to talk about this. Not now. Not ever. There was no way Neal could know what he felt. No one knew.

"You don't understand," Neal interrupted. "I was the one kidnapped in the middle of the night from my home, I was the one locked in chains, flown across the country, and tossed into an underground bunker for over a month. I was the one practically starved to death, the one chained up, the one left alone with no answers. For over two weeks, I heard nothing, I knew nothing. For 8 hours at a time I was in total darkness. Have you any idea what that feels like? You think I don't understand? What part of this don't I understand?"

Peter would have looked at Neal in astonishment at this lengthy monologue but Peter wasn't comfortable looking at Neal at all so he kept his eyes focused on the desk. He hadn't talked about Philip or his lonely childhood with Neal before. How could he discuss it now? How could he make Neal understand how humiliated he was that someone so close to him - his own twin - had caused those weeks of torment - and indeed had nearly accomplished Neal's death? What did that say about himself - Peter?

"This wasn't about you, Neal, even though you bore the brunt of it. This was between…my brother…and me. Philip did what he did for revenge against me. I had no idea…anyone…could hate me so much." Did that make sense? Not even to Peter's mind.

Neal stared at Peter and then shook his head in exasperation. "Peter," he said, his voice taking on a huskiness. "I understand Philip, probably better than you do. I too, have a brother. But my brother is the 'Peter' and I am the 'Philip' in our relationship.

"You're nothing like Philip!" protested Peter, shaking his head. "You are nothing alike."

"We're more alike than you might think," contradicted Neal. "I know what it's like to be the 'black sheep' of the family. Why do you think I never visited Colin? I have…talents…that Philip doesn't. Without those gifts - who knows?"

"You're talking gibberish!" accused Peter, not accepting any of it. Neal and Philip were as different as two people could be.

"Peter," said Neal. "You had nothing to do with how Philip turned out. He chose his own path long ago. Just as Colin is not responsible - for me. Are you going to allow Philip to get away with his plan?"

"His plan?" asked Peter. "Obviously, he didn't get away with it. The CIA discovered what happened.":

"That wasn't the plan, I meant," explained Neal. "His plan was to hurt you. Why are you allowing him to do that? I am fine. Actually, I learned some good lessons. And I made reparation too."

"Reparation?"

"There are a few things I've done, a few people I've hurt along the way - that I regret. What goes around - that whole thing? I had a few bad things - coming my way. Well, that's over. I paid a price. My slate is - cleaner. I hold nothing against you. I don't even hold anything against Philip. He has enough to deal with. The courts are taking care of him. Why waste the time? It's over. Let's just get back to how things were, OK?" Neal's words were an olive branch held out to Peter, who sat for a moment trying to take it all in. This wasn't how things worked in his world. But Neal was right, and he was stupid. Why allow Philip to ruin their friendship? What was he thinking?

"OK," surrendered Peter. "If you can forgive him - so can I."

"Really?" asked Neal, not quite believing Peter.

"No, but it sounds good, doesn't it?"

Neal grinned. Not at Peter's words but at the hint of the old Peter he saw coming back.

"What did you do with Jones?" asked the Peter, suddenly reminded of the errand he sent Neal and Clinton on.

"I gave him the slip, somewhere around Columbus Circle," answered Neal, rolling his eyes.

"You shouldn't be doing that," said Peter, feigning exasperation. "Jones is up for a promotion. You should be helping him look good."

"Promotion! I didn't know. Yikes! I better get back. So - we're okay?" asked Neal, holding out his hand to Peter. Peter took his hand and shook it, a rueful smile on his face.

Meanwhile, in Sing Sing, Philip Buchanan was opening the door to the visiting room. In this prison, bullet proof glass divided the room and phones were on the sides of each small visiting partition. Just as well, Elizabeth thought to herself. Otherwise she would be tempted to strangle Philip, she was so mad at him.

An older, more tired image of her husband sat down in front of her on his side of the glass. It had been several months since Elizabeth saw Philip and she was taken aback by how much he aged and how unwell he looked. His skin had a yellow tinge to it and looked very dry and almost flaky. Philip picked up the phone and so did Elizabeth on her side.

"What do you want, El?" asked Philip, those same brown eyes staring at her banefully through the smudged glass.

"Don't call me 'El'", Elizabeth protested, "You lost that right."

Philip studied her and then looked away. "Why did you come here?" he asked, his gruff voice flat.

"I wanted to see for myself, to find out from you - why did you frame Neal? Why did you put him - all of us - through that? Peter's written you off. I need to know if there is anything worth saving in you."

Peter hesitated before answering. If he had ever asked himself that question, it didn't show. "What is it with you and Peter?" he asked. "Why are you two always trying to save someone?"

Elizabeth was at a loss for words. It had never occurred to her to save anyone. Family was very important and the thought of disowning a sibling was more than she could bear. But there was always the exception and she was beginning to wonder if she had found him.

"Are you sorry at all for what you did?" asked Elizabeth, forging on. "Neal could have been killed. And for what? Do you have a conscience at all?"

"I do have one regret," admitted Philip, leaning back in his grey aluminum folding chair. He gave Elizabeth a speculative look, and then continued spitefully, "I regret my plan didn't work." If he was trying to get a reaction from her, he succeeded. Her face turned red and her hands balled into tight fists. It was all she could manage not to give the window between them a good punch. But she didn't want Philip to have the satisfaction. She replaced the phone in its cradle, got up, pushed her chair back, picked up her purse, rose from her chair, turned around, and walked out the visiting room door at a normal pace. It was only when the door closed behind her that she slammed her fist into the wall. Unfortunately it was a concrete wall. Ohmygod, she cried out. Why did I do that?

A correctional officer came running over to her and if Elizabeth's face was red before, now it was positively crimson with embarrassment. "I am fine," Elizabeth said, trying to smile. "That was pretty dumb, huh?" she asked. "My brother-in-law…" and she shrugged her shoulders. The guard reached out to steady her, but she pulled back from his touch. "I am fine, really," she said, and turned to leave. The guard looked after her, shaking his head.

I am so not fine, thought Elizabeth to herself, holding her rapidly swelling hand in her good hand. She walked away quickly from the prison's arched front door, her mind a tumble of worries. Where was the hospital in this little town? What was she going to tell Peter? She decided to drive back into New York rather than waste time driving around looking for medical help. Now she wished she had driven Peter's car instead of her own old Honda, no GPS, no nothing. Ohmygod, this hurts, she thought to herself, trying not to panic.

A half hour later Elizabeth limped back into New York City, holding the steering wheel with the fingers on her good hand while her damaged hand, swollen and purple, she held up near her face. She had been trying not to think about her pain all the way back but that coping method was rapidly deteriorating. She hated having to pull over and call "911" and then have to explain what happened. "Cowboy up" she told herself, using a favorite phrase of Peter's. No one ever died from a broken hand. Death was rapidly looking more desirable, though, just as New York's Presbyterian Hospital came into view. Fortunately there was valet service and Elizabeth was glad to turn over the car keys to the young man who jumped out eagerly when she pulled up. At that point she didn't care if he took the car and drove it to Canada. Stop the pain! Now. Stop, stop, stop! Ohhh…even walking hurts.

Fortunately the ER was relatively slow and it would only take Elizabeth a couple of hours to be seen by a doctor if no shootings, bombings, or fires occurred first. At least they gave her a bowl of ice water in which to soak her hand and a couple of blue Advil-y looking pills to swallow before showing her to a small room with a narrow gurney surrounded by white cotton curtains. With her good hand she phoned Neal, ignoring the "no cell phone" sign pinned by her door.

"Neal, you're not with Peter are you?" she asked when he answered. It was already after 5:00 p.m. and she hoped they had gone home for the night. Fortunately she told Peter she would be getting home late from work.

"No, Elizabeth," said Neal. "He dropped me off hours ago. What's up?"

"I need you to drive me home," she said. "Not now. In a couple of hours. But you could come now, if you wanted to. Or I could call you. I don't know. What do you think?" Was that actually Advil they gave her, she was beginning to wonder. She felt so loopy.

"Elizabeth, where are you?" asked Neal, concern growing in his voice. "What's happening?"

"Presbyterian Hospital," Elizabeth said. Was there an acronym for it? She couldn't remember. "Is hospital two miles from here? Where you are?" Darn that 'two mile radius' – it was confusing enough when she was thinking straight but now her mind was rapidly going south. Two miles from where? Her mind grappled with the map in her head and then gave up. What had they given her anyway?

"What?" asked Neal, growing alarmed. "You're at a hospital? I need to call Peter…"

"No Peter!," begged Elizabeth. "No Peter, no Peter. Just you, Neal. Please. Come, come, come. Hand broke. They gave me medication, it's making me woozy. Woozy-wooz. Bye, bye Neal." With that she dropped her cell phone on the floor where it broke into a dozen plastic pieces, turned over on the gurney and fell into a deep sleep.

Neal phoned Peter immediately. "Hospital!" Peter exclaimed, leaping out of his chair, scattering the case files he was studying. "What happened?"

"I don't know, Peter," said Neal. "She said something about her hand being broke - and that she was very woozy from the medication."

"Medication!" Peter actually yelled this time. "Elizabeth is sensitive to almost everything. What did they give her?"

"I don't know," said Neal. "And one more thing. She wants me to come, not you. But I couldn't…"

"She wants you?" repeated Peter. "It could be the medication. Anyway, I'll come by and get you. Be waiting outside." And with that he hung up and stuffed the cell phone in his pocket before dashing out the door, leaving his coat and gun holster behind.

Barely twenty minutes later Peter pulled into the parking lot of the hospital but there were no valets in sight. He jumped out of the car, ran around the other side, and tossed the keys to Neal. "Find a parking space…" he ordered as he took off.

"But I don't have a valid driver's license…." Neal yelled after his retreating figure. It appeared to be a moot point. Neal got behind the wheel and took the car out of "park" and slowly crept away from the entrance, keeping a look out for an empty parking space. He pitied the poor person who got between Peter and an ill Elizabeth.

Ten minutes later, Neal walked into the emergency room, searching for Peter and his wife. Fortunately Burke's voice guided him to the right room. "You gave her WHAT?" the voice was saying - loudly. Neal couldn't hear the reply, but as he approached the room a flustered young intern suddenly emerged and rushed past him, white coattails flying, mumbling un-doctorly words as he went.

Neal stepped into the hospital room and pushed the curtain aside. Elizabeth was on the gurney, unconscious. No, she was sleeping. Loudly. Peter stood by her, his face a study in concern and anxiety. One of Elizabeth's hands was wrapped in ice packs and gauze. Peter was clutching her other hand in his two, holding them to his chest, near his heart.

"How is she?" asked Neal. He saw the cell phone pieces on the floor. He crouched down and picked up the sim card, put it in his pocket, and then swept the remaining pieces of the phone under the bed. He would give it to Peter later.

"They don't know," said Peter, his worried eyes on his wife's face. "She can't take medication, it really sends her around the bend. Did they even ask her if she was allergic to anything? If something happens…"warned Peter.

"She'll be fine," Neal assured him, as the snores grew in decibels. If her snoring got any louder, he might have to look for ear plugs, he started thinking.

"How did she break her hand?" asked Peter. "Did she say anything?"

"No," Neal answered. "I don't know. But she was adamant - she only wanted me. She kept saying 'no Peter, no Peter'.

If Neal expected Peter to look hurt by this, he was disappointed. "She was doing something she didn't want me to know about," Peter guessed. He wasn't a FBI agent for nothing. "And I bet I know what it was," Peter continued, eyes narrowing.

"What?" asked Neal, who was beginning to wonder if Peter was psychic. Or is that just what happens when you're married to someone for ten years?

"She visited Philip, I bet anything she did," Peter said.

"But how did she break her hand?" Neal asked, not seeing the connection.

"Oh, El has quite a temper. You wouldn't know it as she works hard to control it. But I've seen her mad a few times. Believe me - if she hit something - she could do this kind of damage."

"Do you think she hit Philip?" conjectured Neal, happily trying to imagine the scene in his mind.

"No, she wouldn't have been allowed to visit him except in the room with the bullet proof glass. He said something to her that made her mad. I bet anything that's what happened!" Peter seemed quite pleased at his detective'ing.

At that point the young intern came in, giving Peter a nervous glance. Waving some x-rays around, he announced, "Your wife broke three bones in her hand. She needs surgery. We've called the hand surgeon in. He should be here shortly. Any questions?" He looked as though he desperately hoped there were no questions. Peter shook his head. He wasn't going to waste time talking to this kid.

"Well, I guess we wait then, huh?" asked Neal, looking around for a chair.

"You don't have to stay," said Peter, glancing over at him. "You're tired. Go home. I've got this."

"No, I am fine," insisted Neal. "I'll stretch out here and get some sleep. Then I can spell you. No problem."

"Neal - you don't have to…" but Neal already found a chair and sat down, pulling his long legs up on another chair opposite to it. His hat was over his face and he didn't reply.

The next morning as the sun shone through the windows of Elizabeth's hospital room, she woke up. At first she didn't know where she was but then looking down at her bandaged hand, the memories came back. She met Neal's concerned blue eyes before seeing her husband asleep in a chair behind him. She smiled groggily. And then in a whisper she asked, "Does he know?"

Neal smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "He knows," he answered honestly. "You do live with an FBI agent, El."

She nodded. "Is he mad?" she asked apprehensively.

Neal shook his head 'no'. "All Peter cares about is you, Elizabeth. You should have seen him last night. He only fell asleep a half hour ago."

"Let's not wake him," Elizabeth advised, as she looked down at her bandaged hand. It was as big as a basketball and she wondered what lay beneath the gauze bandages. She could feel nothing except nausea from the medication. She still couldn't believe she broke her own hand. So many years trying to control her temper and now look at her.

"Why did you visit Philip?" asked Neal, ever curious.

Elizabeth's face flushed at being found out. "I was trying to see if there was any reason for hope that he would change," said Elizabeth.

"Is there?" asked Neal.

"No," said Elizabeth. She hated to give up on anyone. But Philip seemed to be the exception.

"I am sorry," said Neal.

"Me, too," replied Elizabeth. "Philip is Peter's twin. I don't care what Peter says, I know Peter. It's going to kill him to give up on his brother. If Philip dies and they're not speaking - I don't know what it will do to Peter."

"Is Philip sick?" asked Neal, surprised.

"He looks really bad," said Elizabeth. "His skin is yellowish. It could be a liver problem. Neither Peter nor Philip were ever much for drinking so I don't know what it could be - maybe cancer," Elizabeth added. "But if he's got something terminal and if he dies - well, Peter is going to be devastated. He loves his brother." Realizing what she just said, she reached out to Neal with her good hand. "I am sorry, Neal…"

"No, I understand," said Neal. "I have a brother. He isn't a twin. But I understand." He really knew more than Elizabeth realized.

"What are you two plotting?" asked a voice behind Neal. Peter got up stiffly and went to Elizabeth's side, his hair disheveled, his face puffy. "How are you, honey?" he asked his wife, giving her a gentle kiss. Neal stepped away from the bed, embarrassed to be present at such an intimate moment. He decided now would be a good time to track down the pretty nurse who was coming in every hour to take Elizabeth's vitals. Maybe she would like to know Elizabeth was awake. Maybe she'd like to go for coffee sometime.

Two days later, Peter returned to work. Elizabeth had virtually thrown him out of the house so reluctant was he to leave her. But she knew he needed to be working on his cases and not moping after her, trying his best to anticipate her every need and in the meantime driving her crazy. Neal, who had been working with Jones, was glad to see him back. Peter, being a senior agent, had more interesting cases than Jones did to work on. Besides, Neal wanted to talk to Peter about an idea that was forming in his mind. He thought it was best to have the talk in the FBI offices where there would probably be less screaming and yelling on Peter's part.

Neal gave Peter time to get settled back in his office, catch up on his email, and answer his phone messages. That all seemed to take about an hour so it was then that Neal climbed the stairs and knocked on Peter's door.

"How's Elizabeth?" asked Neal, settling himself into one of Peter's office chairs.

"She seems fine," said Peter. "Has a doctor appointment tomorrow for a check-up. But is dealing with the pain okay. Although it's making her a bit cantankerous, but don't tell her I said that," cautioned Peter. Neal shook his head he wouldn't.

"I would like to talk to you about something," began Neal. He had been practicing for several days different ways of broaching the subject with Peter, no approach seemed safe.

"Yeah?"

"I would like to make a trip - a short trip - out of my 'two mile radius'," said Neal. "Can I get your permission for that?" he asked.

"To where?" asked Peter, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Er…Ossining," said Neal nervously.

"You too!" exclaimed Peter, temper quickly rising. "I don't believe it! Does the whole world have to make the pilgrimage to visit my brother?"

"I just want to talk to him. I was the one he put through hell. Can't I at least talk to the person responsible?"

"But why?" asked Peter, exasperated.

"Closure," said Neal. "I need closure. I need to look into his eyes. I just need to. Please, Peter?"

Burke sat back in his chair, he gazed at Neal for a long minute as he pondered the request. "Fine," he said. "Do what you want. Jones can drive you up there. But I don't want to hear about it when you get back!" warned Peter.

"You won't," promised Neal. Getting up, he left Peter's office to go find Jones. Neal wasn't looking forward to another visit inside a prison but there was no other way to accomplish his goal.

Two days later found Jones and Neal on their way to Ossining in Jones' 1957 Ford Fairlane. Neal had rarely seen such a car much less been in one before and he was blown away by the care Jones had put into restoring the Fairlane to its' former glory. Neal had no idea that Jones liked to tinker with cars and that working on this one was his joy. It was beautiful with a cream white paint job and bright cherry red real leather seats. The retractable hardtop turned it into a convertible with a touch of a button. It was quickly obvious that the car was a total 'chick magnet', after awhile Neal lost count of the number of pretty girls who honked as they drove by. Neal understood now why Jones went on so many dates with so many beautiful women.

Fortunately the novelty of the antique car made the trip go by fast and soon they were approaching Sing Sing again and Neal could feel the familiar nerves start up. Actually not quite as bad as last time he was here. Perhaps his weeks in Lompoc had desensitized him to prisons? When he shared his observation with Jones, the young agent was surprised.

"Really?" commented Jones. "I've always heard Federal prisons were the best and much preferred over state prisons."

By now painfully familiar with the entrance routine at Sing Sing, Neal made it through without too much trepidation although the pat-down was still disconcerting. But it was tolerable compared to what he had experienced in Lompoc. He wanted to get his mind off that. He had a mission to accomplish. Neal thought Jones was going to stay in the car or at most shoot the breeze with the guard at the gate but he insisted on tagging along and finally admitted that Peter ordered him to stay close.

So it came to be that exactly one week after Elizabeth visited Philip, Neal found himself in the same stuffy visiting room with the same prison smells he had experienced in Lompoc. "I want to do this alone," Neal told Jones.

"I have my orders," Jones protested.

"Please?" begged Neal. "I have to do this alone."

Afraid of disobeying Peter as he was, Neal's con artsy skills carried the day. Jones had seen what Neal went through first-hand, Peter had not. Jones could sympathize with Neal about his need for closure. After extracting a cross-my-heart-hope-to-die promise from Neal not to tell Peter he left his post, Jones reluctantly agreed to park himself outside the visiting room.

Neal waited five minutes alone, his tension mounting. He knew so well what it was like to be on the other side of these glass walls. His thoughts went back to Kate and …

The door opened on the other side and a correctional officer pushed Philip Buchanan through and closed the door behind him. The older man stood and stared at Neal for a full minute and then lumbered over to the chair in front of the glass partition and sat down. The first time Neal met Philip he was startled how much the twins resembled each other, even in middle age having lived such different lives. But now the change in Philip was evident. As Elizabeth said, Philip did look quite ill and his skin had an odd yellow color to it. But the facial features were the same although Philip was heavier and more puffy than Peter. The mannerisms too were near identical and gave Neal the same jolt as he felt last time. It was always an odd experience to meet the twin of someone you knew well.

"You're looking good," observed Philip, looking Neal up and down through the glass partition.

"No thanks to you," Neal replied, leaning back in his plastic white chair.

"So Elizabeth was here last week, now you. Can I expect my illustrious brother to show up soon?" asked Philip with a touch of sarcasm.

"I wouldn't count on it," advised Neal.

'I am not," answered Philip. "I stopped counting on anything a long time ago. Why are you here, Caffrey?" asked Philip with disinterest. He would have glanced at his watch had he had one.

"You are I are more alike than you think," said Neal. His con-artist ways had long ago engrained in him a strong sense of self-discipline which he was finding very useful now. He could only imagine how frustrated Elizabeth had become, trying to talk to Philip.

"Yes, I can see the resemblance," said Philip with sarcasm.

"But there's one way we differ," observed Neal, ignoring Philip's remark. "For all my - misdeeds - I still have a soul. I am willing to repent. I am not so sure that you do."

"So this is why you're here?" asked Philip with a hoarse laugh. "You want to save my soul? No wonder Peter and Elizabeth have taken you in as one of their own - you all have this weird obsession for saving people."

"I am not here to save you," Neal assured him. "You hold no interest for me. I don't even have enough interest in you to be angry at you for what you did to me. But you're right - I am interested in 'saving' someone. And it's going to destroy him if he doesn't make peace with you before you die."

"Who says I am dying?" Philip snapped, his sunburned yellowish face turning even redder.

"It's obvious your liver is failing," pointed out Neal. "And you've known it for a while. That may have been a factor in turning me over to the CIA. One last poke at Peter before you go."

"That's no business of your's," snapped Philip, irritated. "There's nothing you can give me that I want."

"Yes, there is," answered Neal confidently. He had done his research well. "The family plot."

"What?" asked Philip, interest stirring in his near dead brown eyes.

"Peter will have you buried in the family plot if you two are on good terms when you die. You'll be buried next to your parents - and your sister. Your remains will be treated with respect. You'll have a proper marker, a proper funeral." Neal had confirmed all this with Elizabeth. "Otherwise, your ashes won't even be picked up. They'll end up being scattered over the hard ground in the back of the prison. You'll be here until the world ends. You decide." Neal sat back with satisfaction after making his case.

Philip was quiet for awhile, thinking it over. Neal could see he was taken aback to discover that there was still something he wanted out of life. Now that he was so close to death. Neal waited patiently while Philip thought the deal over, his mind trying to weigh the angles.

"What do I have to do?" Philip finally answered with a tone of resignation.

"That's up to you," Neal said. "There are no stipulations. You and Peter just have to be on good terms when you die. You figure it out." With that Neal stood up and pushed back his chair with the back of his legs. Despite what he had gone through in Lompoc he felt sorry for Philip. He knew what it was like to be the 'black sheep', as he told Peter. This could very well be me, he thought to himself. Thank god Colin had not made off with all the good genes.

Later in the car on the way back to New York Jones asked Neal if he had obtained the closure he desired.

"Not yet," Neal admitted. He didn't say anything else about his visit and Jones didn't ask.

A month went by with nothing heard from Philip and Neal's initial hopefulness began to fade. Maybe he misjudged Philip; his radar was pretty good but dealing with another con artist was always tricky. His own intuition had been known to fail on occasion. Rarely - but there had been some embarrassed moments which he didn't like to think about.

Then one morning when Neal arrived at the FBI offices, Peter wasn't there yet nor had he arrived an hour later. This was very odd, Neal thought. Peter was rarely late to work. He went to ask Jones who shrugged his shoulders and said Hughes told him Burke called in with a 'family emergency'.

"And you didn't tell me?" asked Neal, slightly offended.

"Neal, I hate to tell you this - but you're not really family. I mean - Peter and Elizabeth haven't adopted you or anything - have they?" asked Jones.

"Well, no," admitted Neal. But he was still consumed with curiosity and when he could stand it no longer he dialed Peter's phone, only to have it go directly to voice mail. The same with Elizabeth's phone. What was up here, he wondered? This was very strange indeed. He could barely concentrate on the job Jones gave him which of course had to be a boring mortgage fraud case that any accountant could have solved in five minutes. Why was the FBI getting saddled with such things, anyway? Neal thought the day would never end and when Jones finally let him go home at 4 p.m. he grabbed his hat and coat and dashed to the elevator.

It took a minute or two for Neal to hail a cab and soon he was on his way to Peter's house, his ankle turning from a green light to red about midway there. The Marshall's office had been clued in not to report if Neal was going in the direction of Peter's home, which he did quite often. Of course, he had to stay on a pretty tight course there and back in order not to get in trouble. Once he had made a small excursion to a wine shop and there had been hell to pay from Burke.

Arriving at Peter's little house, he was disappointed to see the windows dark. He was about ready to hail another cab when he spotted a small light glowing in the back room. He took the stairs two at a time and knocked on the door. Loudly.

Neal thought he heard a noise and just as he was wondering if he should get out his lock picking tools, the door opened to reveal a tearful Elizabeth. Unexpectedly she fell into his arms and hugged him tightly, her tears staining his suit. Ohmygoodness, this isn't good, thought Neal. Did something happen to Peter?

Elizabeth pulled Neal inside, and then still clutching his hand, her other arm in a sling, walked him to the back of the house where Peter was hunched over in front of their small fireplace where a few flames were showing through the iron work grating. Peter glanced up, and then shook his head at seeing Neal, whether he was pleased to see him or not, Neal couldn't tell. The small light from the fire reflected on Peter's face and Neal could see undried tears shining on the FBI agent's cheeks. Peter quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand and turned his face away.

"It would be you," observed Peter, his voice uncharacterically hoarse.

"What happened?" asked Neal, anxiously, looking back at Elizabeth, who was, oddly, still grasping his hand. She gazed up at him with an expression of sadness mixed with gratitude. She hugged him again before letting his hand go. She resumed her seat next to Peter in front of the fire and pulled a wooden three-legged stool over for Neal. He sat down uneasily, trying to figure out what was going on. For a few minutes the three of them sat there, staring into the fire, before Elizabeth finally was able to speak between sobs.

"Philip died this afternoon," Elizabeth told Neal. As soon as she got the words out, she started crying again, her shoulders shaking. She turned her face away as she reached down to pull a Kleenex out of a box on the floor.

"Oh, I am sorry," said Neal, surprised. Now he felt definitely awkward at intruding on this personal family moment. "Er…I'll go…"

"No, Neal. Stay," said Elizabeth, reaching over to take his hand again, pulling him back down to the stool. So they sat there, the three of them, looking into the fire, each with their own thoughts.

"Philip asked for Peter last night," Elizabeth told Neal after a few moments, composing herself. "He knew he was dying and wanted to make amends. The warden called us and told Peter he could come into the infirmary, since he was a FBI agent, and say good-bye to his brother. I was there too," she added. "His death…was so beautiful. All the…Philip-ness…was gone. He was just Peter's twin brother again. All the years, the hurts, everything - just faded away. It was so strange. Peter was holding him when he died." At that Elizabeth broke down again, the tears flowing anew at the memory.

Neal was seldom at a loss for words but he didn't know what to say. It turned out there was nothing for him to say.

"Thank you Neal," Elizabeth told him, drying her reddened eyes. She looked into Neal's face with a gratitude he had seldom seen from anyone.

"Me?" he asked, startled. "I didn't do anything."

"Philip wanted you to know," Elizabeth said. "He was sorry for what he did to you. He told me to tell you that."

"No, no," Neal protested, "Please - "

"Neal, be quiet," Peter ordered, speaking up for the second time. Neal shut up and looked back into the fire. Elizabeth had been right after all. There was still some good in Philip. He would have his proper burial. And Peter's life-long rift with his twin was healed at the end. His friend was at peace. Gazing into the flames, Neal decided his ordeal was a small price to pay for this ending. The young con artist also realized with a shock - he would have paid more had it been asked. That's what Peter meant to him.

This story is dedicated to Jeff Eastin, whose imagination and wonderful skill in casting has given me many hours of pleasure both in watching White Collar - as well as playing with the characters when they're not working on the show. Thank you, Jeff!


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